


The Plagued Capital

by soapwiki



Series: Call of Honor [1]
Category: Call of Duty (Video Games), Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Eventual Relationships, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide, Victorian Attitudes, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:35:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 59,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25233250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soapwiki/pseuds/soapwiki
Summary: After a failed attempt on Vladimir Makarov's life, John "Soap" MacTavish wakes up in an unfamiliar city with only his scattered memories of the chaos at Prague to hint at what could've happened to him. He stumbles upon a pub and a conspiracy.
Relationships: John "Soap" MacTavish/Corvo Attano
Series: Call of Honor [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828039
Comments: 49
Kudos: 46
Collections: Call of Honor Universe





	1. Prologue - Reverie

A dark sky envelops a cold, empty world echoing with mournful whalesong. The great beasts swim their solemn journey across the endless expanse amid islands of jagged stone. Like candlelight, the stone islands flicker in and out of perception, shimmering in the dark aura. The smell of flowers, of rot, of the salt of a distant sea wafts through the cold air of the Void, still and stirring, finite and infinite.

Through the gray-brown smog, under the glow of a distant sun smothered by the Void’s aura, there are two men. Like the whales and the black stone on which they stand, they flicker in and out of perception, two reflections plunged deep in the belly of the Void. The cold air breathes around them, pushing them toward one another. They draw closer and closer still, but the closer they become, the farther apart they are.

Voiceless calls reverberate across the abyss, unheard. Somewhere, a seam unravels. With a groan, the Void plunges the reflections into oblivion.


	2. Prague

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the rewrite of Call of Honor! I hope y'all enjoy!
> 
> The primary function of opening chapter notes will be for content warnings. I try to provide as many content warnings as possible, but I can't tag all of them in the AN or in the fic tags. Therefore, I've put together a Google document listing all of the content warnings for each chapter. It contains both a list with minimal spoilers, and a list with detailed descriptions of each trigger.
> 
> If there's a common content warning I missed, or if there's one you would like to request, please feel free to reach out to me on Twitter or by email (sopsignsao3@gmail.com). I will always accept requests, no matter how niche or uncommon (just keep in mind not every trigger will make it to the author's notes—if there's something specific you need a warning for, please be sure to check the document!)
> 
> It will be updated every chapter and will be linked on my Twitter and Tumblr pages, as well as the beginning of each chapter.
> 
> [Click here to view the content warning list.](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1vuNGfCP2-s1Q7Dne4ySDI8AQ_lTAQwDtfl_wSeJ-qso/edit?usp=sharing)

An icy breeze swept through the city and into an old square on a cold autumn morning, carrying with it the stench of smoke and the promise of coming rain. Black plumes billowed high over the cityscape, choking the rising sun, and painted the world dull shades of gray and brown under the smothered morning light. Framing the ashen sky was a broken horizon of bombed-out buildings and towers of smoke.

The Hotel Lustig stood before this horizon. Under the floodlights shining beneath her grand arched windows, she was a pale beacon in the gray morning. The black hand of the brass-faced clock which sat under the Lustig’s looming dome inched closer to seven. Which each passing second it crawled by with a silent tick, keeping time with the sun’s sluggish progression across the eastern horizon.

The Lustig’s shadow blanketed the wide plaza sprawling from her feet. Corpses and abandoned military vehicles littered the old square, and the crumbling structures around it formed a broken crown, with the Lustig as its jewel.

The cold breeze wound into the sky. It blew through the crumbling hole in the side of an old church tower standing opposite the Lustig—the church was old, much older than many of the buildings on this square, but just as quiet.

In the silence, life stirred.

The breeze nipped at his nose and cheeks as Soap peered through the hole in the side of the tower, and he couldn’t stop his nose wrinkling as the smell of smoke washed over him. He flexed his stiff, gloved fingers against the rifle in his hands as he surveyed the hotel.

There was no sign of activity yet; the square was as dead as it had been hours ago, when the fighting died down and the survivors retreated to lick their wounds.

The sharp tang of blood spread in Soap’s mouth and he caught himself chewing on the inside of his lip. Part of him itched for a smoke, but he silently stared down the clock instead.

As Soap acquainted himself with the intricacies of the brass clock, beside him, the shuffle of fabric against fabric filled the silence. Yuri was doing yet another once-over on his gear; he’d been at it for some time now, and it was a pointless endeavor, but Soap could hardly blame him. This was an exercise in patience, but anticipation and restlessness could quickly prove overwhelming.

“Which vehicle will he be in?” Soap found himself asking and he cast a glance toward his companion. He knew Yuri’s guess was as good as his; he also knew small talk could ease the pressure.

A few heartbeats passed before Yuri looked up from counting his ammo. He didn’t meet Soap’s gaze, instead looking out at the Lustig’s grand clock. The tip of his nose was bright red from the chill, though he’d at least the foresight to bring a hat.

“They constantly rotate for security.” His words floated on a tone of certainty. “We won’t know until he steps out.”

Soap raised a brow. “You seem to know a lot about Makarov.”

Yuri quietly returned to filling his magazines.

Soap turned away and pressed his lips into a thin line, choosing not to challenge Yuri’s silence. The man had been with them for some time now; if he weren’t to be trusted, Nikolai wouldn’t have insisted—and Yuri wouldn’t have proven—otherwise.

He consoled himself instead with the fact that having someone who knew Makarov’s patterns played in their favor. Soap knew who they were up against; it would be foolish to assume Makarov wasn’t always one step ahead.

The convoy would arrive any minute now. Soap’s gut twisted into a knot and, in the end, he gave in to his own restlessness and decided to check his weapon one last time. He would prefer to be doing something else, like making one final sweep through their perch for signs of sabotage, but they hadn’t the equipment and now, they hadn’t the time. As he removed the magazine from his rifle and dumped the bullets into his lap, then replaced them one-by-one, he forced himself to instead find satisfaction in this one last inventory—the last bullets to count before it came time to end this.

_This_ had gone on for far too long. Soap cast another sideways glance toward Yuri, who was the newest addition to the remnants of Task Force 141. It was down to Soap and Price now, along with a handful of trusted contacts. The rest were gone. A lie backed with the corpses of friend and foe alike led to the disavowment of the 141, and as of late Soap and Price have been reduced to fugitives. Wanted, dead or alive.

But in the end, they still had a mission.

For years, the 141 had been hunting Vladimir Makarov. A man who, fueled by bitter hatred for the West and for his own country, carved a bloody swath through Europe. His efforts to make the world bend to his will had ultimately resulted in a third World War, and the blood of millions stained his hands—and as far as Soap and Price saw it, there was only one way to bring this war to an end.

Killing Makarov wouldn’t solve everything, no. But a snake couldn’t go far without its head.

This was why Soap and Yuri were perched in this crumbling tower hundreds of years older than they were, why Price was hidden somewhere on the roof of the Lustig. The odds weren’t in their favor, but that hadn’t stopped them before, and it wouldn’t stop them now; one way or another, this would end in death, and Soap was going to make damn sure Makarov’s head hit the ground first.

He’d lost too much for anything else.

A scar on Soap’s stomach, twisted and ugly, served as a bitter reminder of the betrayal leading up to this moment. General Shepherd’s last stand in the sands of Afghanistan had taken place many months ago, but the memory was a ghost that refused to leave; Soap remembered well the knife that took Shepherd’s life and very nearly took his own, and through the long recovery that followed, through the agony and drugged stupor that rendered him into something more dead than alive, _killing Makarov_ had been the one thing that kept him fighting. More than Price, more than home, more than the world. More than his own family.

The crackling of the radio pulled Soap out of his thoughts and he snapped to attention, silently cursing himself for allowing himself to be lost in thought. Price’s voice came over the radio, low and firm:

_‘Alpha One. Radio check, over.’_

Soap looked up at the clock. The black hands read seven; it was almost time for Makarov to arrive, and as much as he’d probably like to pretend otherwise, it was likely that Price was just as restless as they were. Soap held down the transmission.

“Bravo One, copy. We’re dug in with line of sight.”

_‘Right. Kamarov’s our eyes and ears inside the hotel. Once he gives us the nod, we’ll kick this off.’_

The radio fell silent. With a low sigh, Soap finished refilling the magazine and clicked it back into place.

The beat of a rotor vibrated through the air as a helicopter made a pass nearby; Soap glanced up quickly enough to catch its tail end before it vanished again. His gaze returned to the hotel, where movement caught his eye.

Dark silhouettes shuffled in the darkness on either side of the grand arched window on the second-floor balcony. They spread, and Soap could make out the shape of guns against the glow of the curtained window. Ultranationalists.

Still no sign of the convoy.

“You see that?” muttered Soap, and Yuri let out a low hum. Soap reached for the radio, but Price beat him to the punch.

_‘What do you see?’_

“I’ve got some activity on the balcony,” answered Soap. “Three—no. Four armed guards.”

_‘Any sign of Makarov?’_

Soap scoffed. “Bugger-all, mate. Looks like Makarov’s late for his own funeral.”

Yuri snorted dryly. Price remained silent, and Soap continued:

“They’ve got curtains up on the first floor. You and Kamarov are gonna have to take care of ‘em if you want sniper support.”

_‘Right. Sit tight until you’ve got a clean shot. Then you can put as many rounds on him as you like.’_

Soap glanced over at Yuri, who finally met his gaze. His stony gray eyes mirrored Soap’s resolve.

“It’ll only take one.”

Price fell silent, and in that silence was understanding. All of them—Soap, Price, Yuri—had been waiting for this moment, and after all these years, it was finally coming to a head. Soap still wasn’t sure what Yuri’s stakes in this were, but at this point, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was putting Makarov six feet under.

The urge to smoke returned, stronger than ever, but Soap shoved it down. Had there been more time, he’d have considered pulling out his journal, but that time had long passed. He watched the Ultranationalists pace the balcony instead, and distantly thought of the cigar he’d share with Price once this was all said and done.

“How are you feeling?”

The question came out of nowhere and, surprised, Soap raised a brow at Yuri. Yuri didn’t return his incredulous look; his eyes were focused on the men on the balcony.

“What the hell kind of a question is that?” Soap remarked, though there was more humor in his voice than venom as he huffed and looked back out toward the Lustig. “I’m freezing my arse off, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“No, John. How are you _feeling?”_

Out of the corner of his eye, Soap watched as Yuri turned toward him. He stifled an annoyed sigh—Soap had always made it clear that he preferred going by his last name or, if absolutely necessary, his callsign. Maybe Yuri’s insistence on using his first name was meant to imply seriousness, or perhaps familiarity.

Or maybe Yuri just liked to get a rise out of him.

“What is this, therapy hour? I’m fine.”

A pause.

“Are you still having those dreams?”

Soap whipped around to face Yuri again, both brows raised this time. “I _don’t_ remember telling you that.”

Yuri averted his gaze and this time Soap let out his annoyed sigh.

They’d started in the early days after Shepherd’s last stand, when Soap was still deep in the clutches of morphine-induced slumber. He’d had many dreams during that time of course, a cacophony of chaos and emptiness and vivid colors and deep grays, inescapable and contradictory. But one dream, one recurring dream, stood out among the rest.

In them, he would find himself in what he could only describe in his journal as an empty expanse. Jagged black rock beneath him would be all that kept him from plummeting down an endless drop where the abyss and the sky were one. The keens of unseen creatures reverberated through the cold air, and their wails would chill Soap down to the bone.

The world was empty, but he was never alone.

In that great expanse, he would have one companion. Distant at first, far too distant to recognize, but as Soap dreamed more of that place, the stranger would come closer.

He could never see the stranger clearly; he was always a kaleidoscope of blacks and browns and blues in the ever-shifting aura of the dead world, but Soap could remember the few details he did pick out. There would be snatches of curly, dark brown hair, and patches of a dark umber complexion, and the most fleeting glances of eyes so dark they were almost black under the brown-gray paleness of the expanse. The figure would never answer Soap’s calls, and when he would dare to tread forward, the stranger’s image would shift back in turn.

At first, it had been easy to write off the dreams as a result of the constant flow of drugs in his system. But then the months dragged on, the wound closed, he was weaned off the morphine, and…the dreams persisted. Not just that, but increased in frequency.

Soap had always been a vivid dreamer, but this one was too tangible, too… _real._ The pull he would feel between himself and the stranger in the dream was undeniable, and every time he woke, that pull lingered, and he was left with the distinct feeling that he hadn’t woken up at all; rather, he’d returned from somewhere.

Soap drummed his fingers against his rifle and glared out the side of the church tower, prodding the raw inside of his lip with his tongue. After a moment, he relented.

“How did you know?”

Yuri hesitated.

“I overhear you sometimes,” he admitted. “Talking to Price.”

“So you’re eavesdropping on us now?” Soap winced at his own tone; he’d meant it as a joke to ease the tension, but it came out less as a playful jab and more of a demand.

“What? No, I only—” Yuri cut himself off mid-sentence and let out a sharp sigh, shaking his head.

“You seemed distracted,” he said after a few moments.

“I’m _fine,”_ Soap insisted, and he drummed out one last beat against the side of his rifle before forcing his fingers into stillness. “I’m just focused on Makarov.”

There was a short stretch of silence. Soap worried his lip with his teeth.

Soap had known Price for over five years. Nearly a decade at this point. They’d been through hell together, and away from home, Price was the closest thing Soap had to family while they were off _saving the world_ or whatever it was the world thought the Special Forces did. But Yuri? Soap could trust him as a soldier, yes, and as a valuable ally, but he wasn’t about to go spilling his guts to him. Yuri meant well, but Soap wasn’t a talker.

And neither was Yuri, for that matter, which was why his sudden questioning was so off-putting.

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

The rifle was a cold weight in Soap’s hands.

“Aye.” He gave Yuri a sideways glance. “I’ll be even better once we put a bullet in Makarov’s skull.”

Yuri nodded, silent and firm.

On the clock, the minute hand inched past five.

The appearance of armed guards at the foot of the Lustig caught Soap’s eye; their green and red fatigues were a splash of color against the muted stone as they milled impatiently in front of the hotel. He counted four of them.

It was the first hint that their quarry was drawing close.

Soap heard the second before he saw it. The telltale thunder of a low-flying bird alerted Soap in time for him to duck behind cover moments before it swept over the square; it was indeed incredibly low, though it passed without landing. Soap looked over at Yuri—who had also tucked himself out of sight—and raised a brow. Yuri returned his gaze with a solemn nod.

The radio buzzed to life.

_‘You see that?’_ growled Price over the crackling static.

“Aye. You see him yet?”

_‘Negati—Wait.’_ A pause. _‘There they are. Four armored vehicles, coming from the east.’_

Soap swung his rifle into position, resting it on the edge of the crumbled wall, and settled into his perch overlooking the square. Yuri clicked his magazine back into place and mirrored Soap’s position.

_‘Head’s up. Makarov’s convoy is arriving now.’_

Price had barely finished his sentence when the first BTR rumbled into the square.

It was time.

Soap took a deep breath and peered down the scope, and through it he watched as the BTR led the rest of the convoy round to the front of the hotel. Behind it trailed two armored vans and a second BTR, the latter of which brought up the rear. Soap prodded his lip with his tongue as he followed the convoy with his scope, trying to get a good look at the vans—or rather, who was in them. The windows were tinted, but not well enough; he could make out vague features if he tried.

“I see them. Four armored vehicles. No visual on Makarov yet.”

Soap studied the first van behind the leading BTR. He saw a few vaguely human shapes, though not enough detail to identify any of them. His lip twitched into a frown.

The convoy came to a complete stop in front of the hotel, and Soap couldn’t help the interested quirk of his brow; perhaps this would make identifying Makarov easier. One of the guards at the front door strode down into the square and made a brisk path down the length of the convoy.

“They’ve stopped in front of the hotel.”

The guard stopped at the second van and tapped one of the windows before leaning in; his lips moved as he conversed with the person inside. The figure leaned toward the window from within the van, and Soap noticed a shallow dip in shadow as the figure nodded. Soap ground his teeth as he worked out his features, picking out the shape of his hair, the movement of his lips, the structure of his face—

_There you are._

_‘Do you see him?’_

“Aye,” Soap growled, “there’s the bastard.” He flexed his fingers on the side of his rifle. “Third vehicle.”

He spotted another shallow dip of Makarov’s head as the guard at the window continued to talk. After what felt like ages, the guard finally stepped away and started back down the length of the convoy.

Soap wasn’t an idiot; he knew very well those windows were bulletproof. Still, it didn’t stop him fantasizing about squeezing the trigger and blowing Makarov’s brains all over those immaculate leather seats—

Makarov turned.

The hair on the back of Soap’s neck stood on end as he realized Makarov was facing the church, his head angled upward as if looking directly at the tower. Through the scope, even though the tinted glass, Soap saw—he _thought_ he saw—Makarov’s eyes, and his heart jumped into his throat.

_“Shite!”_ he hissed. “I think he’s lookin’ right at us!”

_‘Easy,’_ Price murmured, buttery smooth. _‘Just sit tight.’_

Soap pressed his lips together, unable to shake the chill running up his spine. Makarov wasn’t looking at the tower anymore; he was back in his relaxed position so quickly that Soap almost thought he’d imagined the whole thing. The convoy crawled toward the hotel garage, and Soap watched as it—and Makarov—disappeared into the shadows. He didn’t let his guard down, but some of the icy terror dissipated, if only a little.

“He wouldn’t,” Yuri whispered, so low Soap almost didn’t catch it. “He isn’t that stupid. He wouldn’t just give himself away like that…”

Soap wasn’t sure who Yuri was trying to soothe more.

_‘Focus up, you two,’_ Price ordered. _‘Alright, Kamarov. You’re up.’_

Silence.

_‘Kamarov, do you read me?’_

A knot curled in Soap’s gut. Kamarov—one of their “friends” from the days of the Second Russian Civil War—was supposed to be their eyes and ears on the inside. Without him, they’d be effectively blind—

Soap nearly let out a relieved sigh when the radio finally crackled to life again and Kamarov’s voice came on over the static, low and clipped.

_‘I read you.’_

_‘What do you see?’_

A long pause.

_‘They parked in the garage. We are now escorting him upstairs.’_

_‘And you’re sure it’s him?’_

There was a low scoff from Kamarov’s end, so low Soap could’ve imagined it. _‘He’s surrounded by guards. I can’t exactly shake his hand.’_

_‘Kamarov—’_

_‘It’s him.’_

Another stretch of silence. Soap continued to worry the raw inside of his lip.

_‘We are on the second floor. Moving into the meeting room now.’_

_‘Right.’_ Price paused, and then, _‘Soap, Yuri, I’m in position. Ready?’_

Soap scanned the top of the hotel, above the brass clock. A shifting brown and gray shape caught his eye.

“Aye, we’ve gotcha.”

Soap watched as Price leaned forward to survey the balcony below, then turned to hook up his rappel. Soap brought the scope down again, to the guards who still lazily paced the balcony.

Soap’s finger hovered over the trigger as he aimed for the guard on the far right.

“We’ll take ‘em out together, Yuri,” Soap muttered. “On my go.”

Shadows from inside the hotel shuffled across the curtains hanging over the windows. High above, Price hovered, waiting to begin his descent.

Kamarov’s voice came over the radio.

_‘He’s in.’_

Price dropped.

_“Now,”_ hissed Soap, and he pulled the trigger.

The shot, dampened by the suppressor, reverberated through the cold October air. The target crumpled without a chance to react. A second shot rang out, and another guard—on the left this time—also fell. Soap switched to his next target and cut short the man’s scramble to attention with a shot to the head. Yuri neutralized the fourth and final guard moments before Price dropped into view and swung forward on the line.

_‘Breaching.’_

Glass shattered under Price’s boots as he made contact with the windowpane, the curtains fluttering on the other side. He grabbed the curtain on his inward swing and yanked, bringing the curtain down and unhooking from the line in one swift movement. Soap resisted the urge to snort; there was always something about Price that leaned toward the dramatics.

Golden light spilled out onto the balcony, and for the first time Soap was given a clear view of the room from inside. As Price made a mad dash for cover, Soap counted six hostiles—

One of the hostiles drew his pistol and fired on the two others, downing them both with shots to the back of the head. Kamarov had blended in a little _too_ well.

Yuri took out one other, and Soap’s third shot narrowly missed when his target was gunned down quicker than he could react. Once again, Price beat him to the punch, but Soap swiftly recovered and fired on another target, taking him down with one clean shot.

Soap spied movement on the left and swept his rifle around in time to see two more guards rush into the room, coming up on Kamarov. Neither Price nor Kamarov seemed to notice them at first, and it took Soap shooting one down for them to notice and make short work of the other.

The element of surprise was evidently on their side, and Price’s announcement that the room was clear underlined their success. Soap followed Price with his scope as he emerged from behind cover and crossed the room toward Kamarov, who waited by a door leading into what Soap assumed to be the meeting room. Soap heard Price count down over the radio, and then a well-placed kick brought the door down. Inside were three men: two more guards, and Makarov.

The doorway was too narrow for Soap to attempt a shot. Instead, he watched through the scope as Price and Kamarov took down the guards on either side of Makarov. Makarov reached for his own weapon, but Price was quicker.

_Bang._ Makarov’s head snapped back as the pistol shot ripped through his forehead, and like a ragdoll he fell, lifeless, to the floor.

_‘Clear.’_

Soap watched with bated breath as Price and Kamarov picked their way over the bodies of the guards, making their way to Makarov. In a low tone, Price ordered Kamarov to confirm the kill, and Kamarov knelt beside the body, holding his rifle off to one side.

Soap continued to prod his raw lip with his tongue as he stared down the scope, watching Kamarov examine the body. It was easy, Soap thought, maybe too easy—

“Make sure to check his eyes,” Yuri said. “He has heterochromia. Left eye blue, right eye green.”

Soap resisted the urge to cast his companion a curious side-eye. He remembered reading about Makarov’s heterochromia in his file, but it never occurred to him to commit to memory which eye was what color.

Did the file even mention which eye was which?

A few heartbeats passed before anyone said a word. Then Kamarov’s head shot up and he stared up at Price with alarmed eyes.

_‘It’s not him.’_

Soap didn’t comprehend what he’d said at first. The words almost didn’t make sense. He turned them over in his head, over and over, even as Price snapped:

_‘What do you mean, ‘it’s not him?!’’_

_‘It’s not him. Both his eyes are green.’_

“He sent us a fucking decoy!” Soap couldn’t stop the words from spilling out his mouth with the white-hot fury that crashed over him. He dug his fingers into the side of the rifle, and as he watched Kamarov start to rip open the decoy’s suit jacket, he snarled, “Where the _fuck_ is he?”

_‘Captain Price.’_

A snakelike voice crooned Price’s name over the radio. Soap’s blood turned to ice. It was a voice he’d only heard once before, but that one time was enough to sear it into his memory. Through the scope, he could see Price’s head whip around as he searched for the voice’s owner.

The decoy’s suit jacket came apart and revealed the vest underneath. Kamarov recoiled as an array of small lights blinked up at him.

_‘Price! He’s rigged!’_

Yuri spat out a swear. Soap bit down hard on his tongue and tasted blood.

The lights blinked faster. Kamarov staggered to his feet toward Price, who backed away toward the door. More lights began to blink, not on the vest, but from unseen places within the room, and a wave of horror rolled through Soap as he realized—it wasn’t just the decoy. The whole damn room was rigged.

**_‘Ad zhdyet tebya.’_ ** 1

“Price, Kamarov, get out of there!” They turned to bolt, the lights blinked ever faster, and Soap screamed after them, _“PRICE!”_

A flash of white and orange and red preluded the resounding blast which sent rubble flying and tremors through Soap’s bones. Reflexively he let out a low cry and dropped his rifle, flinching away from the hole in the wall. He regained control of himself and stared down at the aftermath.

The second floor of the Hotel Lustig was no more. The structure itself still stood, but black smoke billowed from the heart of the hotel. Hundreds of crows, disturbed by the explosion, flocked into the gray sky. The beat of their wings and their chorus of cries filled the sooty air, forming a black mass that blotted out the morning sun, and Soap’s stomach sank as he imagined the pieces of Kamarov—the pieces of _Price—_ scattered over what was left of the meeting room.

The radio crackled to life once more. Soap hoped to hear Price’s voice or perhaps even Kamarov over the static—

_‘Yuri, my friend.’_ Venom dripped from Makarov’s voice over the static. _‘You never should have come here.’_

Soap shot to his feet.

_Yuri._

Soap whipped around to face the ex-Spetsnaz. Rifle abandoned, Yuri stared slack-jawed at the hotel; as Makarov spoke, he turned and met Soap’s gaze, wide-eyed, and something furious burned in Soap’s chest at the sight of his horrified face. He closed the space between them in two strides and grabbed Yuri by the front of his jacket, hauling him to his feet.

“What the hell is he talking about?!” he snarled. Yuri drew a breath as if to answer, but no sound escaped his throat.

_Beep._

Soap’s head snapped up.

The tower, once so quiet, was flooded with the sound of low beeping. His heart leapt into this throat as small lights blinked at him from above, from around him, from nooks and crannies that they hadn’t checked, because they hadn’t the equipment or the _time—_

_“GET OUT, NOW!”_

Soap threw Yuri out the side of the tower and launched himself after him. Behind them, hot on his back, was a blast.

* * *

1"Ad zhdyet tebya."- "Hell awaits you." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said I would wait to finish all the chapters to start posting this? Well I got impatient and excited so let's consider that a lie.
> 
> I'm super excited to get back into Call of Honor again! I will try to post as regularly as I can. <3


	3. Blood Brothers

The smell of burning wax filled the room as candle smoke wound up toward the ceiling. The flaming wick sent shadows dancing along the walls of the attic, whimsical shapes loosely following the movement of lean arms and the curve of a blade. The scratch of metal against bone lulled against the quiet.

Fragments of bone fell onto dirty purple cloth. A scrimshaw shrine sat in the center of the cloth, and copper wire holding two chunks of driftwood together caught the light of the twin candles placed on either side of an old cigar box.

A man sat in front of this shrine, quietly carving a trinket out of a larger chunk of old bone. He paused his handiwork to look up at one of the windows, and through it he saw the shadow of a snow flurry against the dove gray morning. Unusual—it rarely snowed here—but then again, much has changed over the past two years.

He returned to his work, his thumb pressed tightly against the handle of the knife.

He would normally be asleep at this hour, put under by the warm embrace of sleep poison. But now, sleep evaded him.

He’d had the dream again. But it was different this time.

Almost everything else was the same; the dead gray-brown sky, the yawning abyss threatening to consume him if not for the islands of black stone he floated upon. It was the same dream he’d been having for months now, and for the past week he’d been having the same dream every night. But this time it was different.

This time, the stranger wasn’t there.

The knife slipped. The man hissed through his teeth and brought his thumb up to his mouth. The sharp tang of blood spread over his tongue.

The stranger, his sole companion in the Void, had been missing. He had still felt the bond between them deep in his dreaming moments, but the stranger himself—a shifting mass of colors and disjointed features, little more than a specter in the mist—had vanished entirely. Never before had the stranger ever been absent from his dreams, with the only evidence of his existence being the tether which continued to tie them together.

The tether bound them even now, in waking hours; the man felt the familiar pull deep in his chest. He’d decided long ago that the dreams were a message of some kind, perhaps warning him of someone who would soon enter his life. There were many ways to interpret the stranger’s disappearance, but the man settled on only one: he had arrived.

Now it was just a matter of finding him.

* * *

Black and gray and white swirled together as the world swam in Soap’s eyes. The stench of smoke stifled his breathing, slowing his ease into semi-consciousness. His limbs refused to cooperate, but even so, he was weighed down by something which he couldn’t hope to move even if he tried. His ribs screamed as the rubble pressed him down against the cobblestone. His eyes fluttered. He was on his stomach, and it was hard to breathe.

A chaotic symphony of distant screams and gunfire blurred together through the ringing in his ears. His gaze wandered through the gaps in the rubble, and he saw shapes flickering back and forth across the light. He turned his head, strained his eyes, and past the rubble, through blurry vision out the corner of his eye, he could make out the black shape of a helicopter looming against the gray sky. A tower of smoke rose. The helicopter strafed to the left.

He and Yuri were once up there.

The scaffolding beneath the tower was likely what had saved him. It had broken their several-story fall to the square. He remembered cracking his ribs against iron, but he didn’t remember landing, nor did he remember the rain of rubble which would’ve buried him under this weight.

He did know that he should be dead.

Soap groaned and laid his head flush against the cobblestone. His chest was agonizingly tight, and he fought for his next breath.

A rush of wind sounded above him, followed by a loud _boom_ as whatever it was made contact with the helicopter. There was the characteristic slowing of the rotors, the scream of the engine as the helicopter lurched out of the sky. Somewhere across the square, there was a crash.

The resistance was out to play.

Soap’s luck hadn’t quite run out yet.

The weight on Soap’s back dragged across his body, and Soap couldn’t help his cry as the weight pushed him harder against the ground and crushed his ribs. A gloved hand made contact with his back.

_“John?”_

It seems _his_ luck hadn’t run out yet, either.

Yuri pushed more rubble off of Soap and suddenly more light spilled across his body. Another groan dragged itself from his throat and he winced, squeezing his eyes shut. Something warm and wet trickled down his brow.

The gunshots and screaming were becoming louder, almost deafening.

Yuri grunted as he struggled against a large piece of rubble pinning Soap’s legs. His lead-heavy limbs refused to cooperate, but in the end, Soap was able to nudge his legs free with Yuri’s help. Something larger was laying across his back, and it nudged to one side as Yuri pushed—

_“SOAP!”_

Soap’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Price’s voice. The world swam in and out of focus, but through the gap in the rubble he could see a shape barreling toward them; all that came out when Soap tried to call was a shuddering cough.

Price joined Yuri at his side, and moments later the large slab of rubble—a plank of wood—was sent clattering to the stone. Strong hands rolled Soap onto his back and gripped his face. His eyes traveled upwards.

The soot on Price’s face was streaked with sweat and blood, a dark red trickle seeping down into his stained beard from his hairline. His hat was gone, and in its place, sooty, wavy hair stuck out in all directions. Wide gray-blue eyes darted across Soap’s face.

“Price,” Soap rasped, and he weakly reached for one of Price’s hands. Price gave him a firm shake.

“Look at me!” shouted Price, voice hoarse with disuse. “You’re alright!” He stood abruptly, letting Soap’s hand slip off his own, and grabbed Yuri by the front of his vest.

“Grab him, we have to move _now!”_

Yuri grabbed Soap by his arms and hauled him upright. A ragged gasp ripped itself from Soap’s chest; his stomach burned, his back burned, everything burned white-hot and rocked him down to his core. Yuri pulled one of Soap’s arms over his shoulders and snaked one arm around his waist.

Soap gripped the front of Yuri’s jacket as he staggered forward, letting Yuri do most of the work in supporting his weight. The fact that either of them were on their feet at all was a miracle in of itself, and it was almost insulting that out of the two of them, Yuri was the one in better shape.

“Yuri…” Soap tugged on Yuri’s jacket. “Makarov…he said—”

Something caught Soap’s foot and he found himself on his knees. A cough freed something coppery from his throat and sent fire through his ribs. He gasped for breath as Yuri hauled him upright again, his arm curling around his waist once more and holding him tight.

“I’ll explain when I can,” hissed Yuri, and his free hand gripped Soap’s. “I’m sorry.”

Soap heard Price shouting orders over the roar of battle, but he couldn’t see him; his eyes were glued to the ground as he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other fast enough to match Yuri’s pace. Price led them down an alley, through an abandoned shop and round the back to where the gunfire was quieter. There was another shout from Price that Soap couldn’t make sense of, and moments later, Yuri was helping him down next to a dumpster.

Soap arched his back against the dumpster and gasped for air through the stabbing pain in his chest. Under his Kevlar, under his sweater and his undershirt, something hot spread across his belly.

_The stab wound—_

Hands gripped Soap’s arms and pulled him to his feet again. He stumbled, but Price’s firm grip kept him from falling.

“I’ve got you.”

“Price!” His world spun; a shape that must’ve been Yuri took point in front of them. “We need…Nikolai—get us out—”

 _“Makarov,”_ Price growled, and he needn’t say more for Soap to understand; as long as they were in the city, they couldn’t call for help. Not while Makarov listened to every word.

“Kamarov?” Soap asked.

The bitter expression Price’s face twisted into told Soap everything he needed to know.

It was all Soap could do to stay conscious and upright while the three of them fled through the city, cutting through as many alleyways and buildings as they could to avoid the fighting in the main streets. Every now and again, Soap heard gunfire as hostiles—Russian troops, or perhaps Makarov’s men specifically—intercepted them, and every time it was followed by Yuri shouting an all-clear. Price dragged Soap along.

There was an old bar to the north, which the resistance used as one of their many safehouses. That, Soap assumed, was their destination; originally, they had planned to fall back there. After putting down Makarov.

Clearly the circumstances had changed.

There was no time to dwell on their failure. Not now, not while the quickly enclosing battle came down on their backs, not while Soap fought his own battle of simply keeping his eyes open. The further he ran, the more he tripped over his own feet, and Price had to fight to keep him upright. The warmth on his belly spread, seeping down into his pants and gluing his socks to his feet. The fire raging in his chest refused to calm.

And yet…

_‘Yuri, my friend. You never should have come here.’_

The words played over and over in Soap’s mind, the one clear thought in the mist. Something burned in Soap’s chest, deeper than the agonizing pressure which stole his breath.

Fury.

In the early days after Shepherd’s last stand, when they were forced to flee Nikolai’s outpost while Soap was still bedbound and drugged to near death, who was it that Nikolai vouched for? Who helped them escape in one piece, who helped them as Soap recovered and they turned to mercenary work to keep themselves armed, fed, and hidden? Who gave them information about Makarov, allowing them to track him down when he put himself back on the grid? Who helped them in Sierra Leone? In Somalia? Last night, in this very city?

Soap thought he knew, once upon a time. He wasn’t sure anymore.

It took Price pulling him to his feet again before Soap realized he’d fallen. They were indoors now, though where, he couldn’t tell; his eyes refused to make sense of the scenery warping around him. Soap opened his mouth, but all that came out was a wheeze.

“Price…” He sagged against Price with a low groan. The arm around his waist curled tighter.

“Come on, Soap! We’re almost there—you can make it!”

The city was a blur. All around them was gunfire and the cries of men. Price shouted something about the resistance, and Soap lifted his head to see what was in front of them. Flashes of camouflage and solid grays and browns rushed back and forth across the line of pale buildings.

Price was carrying him now; Soap’s legs dragged uselessly across the pavement.

“We’ve got wounded!” Yuri’s voice rang out across the square. Price released Soap, and someone else took his place. More hands lifted him, and Soap rolled his head back against the chest of one of the men carrying him. He smelled like sweat and gunpowder, and Soap wanted to reach out for Price, just to make sure he was nearby. His arms instead hung limp at his sides.

The smell of dust and warm bodies lingered in the cool safehouse. Yellow light greeted Soap as he opened his eyes, and he faintly registered Price’s voice ordering someone to clear a table. Glass shattered against wood and papers fluttered in the air, and then Soap was set down on something solid. It was cold.

Everything was cold.

His eyes refused to focus on any one thing as bodies swarmed around him. Strong hands undid the clasps of his vest and pressed all over his torso, searching for the source of the river of blood. Each breath brought in less air; a desperate gasp sent pain stabbing through his ribs.

_I’m dying._

The thought burned through Soap’s mind, and an ache rose in his jaw as he gritted his teeth. He squeezed his eyes shut when someone sharply pressed down on his stomach. His eyelids burned.

He couldn’t die. Not now. Not while the war still raged, not while Makarov was still alive. He and Price were in this _together_. All they had left was each other. He couldn’t just leave him, couldn’t just up and _die—_

_‘What the hell kind of a name is Soap, eh? How’d a muppet like you pass Selection?’_

Price’s first words to him rang through his mind as clearly as they had all those years ago. All those years of friendship forged through fire and blood and bitter loss. Soap once promised Price he’d stay at his side until the very end.

Soap never broke a promise.

Soap opened his eyes, searching for Price among the faces surrounding him. It was Price’s hands which were pressed against his stomach, over the old wound left by Shepherd’s knife. Soap groaned out his name, and Price’s eyes snapped up to his face. They were wide with terror, genuine terror which Soap hadn’t seen in those eyes in a long time, and if he weren’t so cold and tired the sight would’ve scared him. Light spilled out from somewhere behind Price and cast a golden glow across his blood-smeared face, through his sooty black hair. His lips moved as he said something that almost sounded like—

_“Stay with me.”_

“Price—” A cough ripped through Soap’s chest. He tasted blood.

“Not now, Soap!” Price’s hands pressed firmer. “Stay with me, son!” He twisted in his spot and screamed over his shoulder, “GET A _MEDIC!”_

Price’s name fell from Soap’s lips again. He found the strength to lift his arm, and his shaking hand wandered across the front of Price’s vest; Price lifted a hand to meet his, and strong fingers curled around Soap’s. That hand was streaked with blood, and though it squeezed, Soap felt only blank pressure through the numbness.

There was no time. No time for goodbyes, for apologies. There was only time for one thing, more important than any pretty final sentiment Soap could ever want to express.

“Makarov…” He gasped. Price pulled his hand closer and leaned forward, as if trying to hang onto him with the strength Soap didn’t have.

Soap swallowed a shallow breath and with the last of his strength, he lifted his head, curling his fingers weakly against Price’s hand.

_“Makarov…knows…Yuri…”_

His last breath escaped his chest and he slumped against the table. The safehouse spun into darkness, and somewhere far away was Price’s voice screaming, screaming—


	4. Lazarus

Light.

Bright, blinding light greeted Soap as his eyes fluttered open. It burned spots in his vision and he squeezed his eyes shut. The light’s imprint danced behind his eyelids.

Pain came next, starting in his ribs and radiating from deep in his chest. It seeped down into his bones, and Soap couldn’t help the low groan that fell from his lips. His skull pounded mercilessly, and Soap coaxed himself into rolling over before curling in on himself.

A confused haze was what his mind had become, and each thought struggled to make itself known through the fog. And yet they came, one by one, scattered memories easing into the front of his mind.

_Makarov. Prague._

Soap pressed his forehead against the surface he laid on. Stone. Rough and wet, it dragged against his skin.

The crack of ribs against scaffolding. The river of blood oozing from his stomach. His body remembered it, remembered the numbness in his legs and the sick exhaustion of blood loss. He swallowed thickly, winced at the soreness in the back of his throat. Distantly, Price’s screams echoed in the back of his mind.

He should’ve been dead.

An ache settled in Soap’s jaw and he found himself gritting his teeth. He should’ve been dead, but he wasn’t. And wherever Price was, he wasn’t here now.

The question was, then: Where was _here?_

The light beating down on Soap’s back was bright, but not warm. It was autumn, but the air carried the crispness of early, maybe mid-winter. Typical for Eastern Europe. The breeze that swept across Soap’s body and chilled him to the bone carried the smell of the river.

He wasn’t in the safehouse anymore, that much was clear.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

A stone wall glistening with moisture stood barely a meter away. The water gathered into a puddle below, and there a black rat sniffed for something edible. It scurried away as Soap languidly lifted his head, the sunlight catching in its oily hide. The wind picked up, and the smell—the _stench_ —of the river grew ever stronger. Soap wrinkled his nose, unsure if the Vltava always smelled this bad. A gull cried overhead.

Something was wrong.

A cough strained his sandpaper throat, and the saliva he spat onto the stone was thick with mucus and old blood. Soap hauled himself onto his hands and knees, battling through the pins and needles in his limbs. His joints were stiff, but he at least had the strength to sit upright on the damp, fungus-sporting stone.

The narrow mouth of the alley provided a glimpse of the street beyond, as well as the buildings which ran along it. With their shuttered windows and metal paneled doors splashed with red paint, it was clear they were uninhabited. Soap’s first instinct was that the Russians had come through here, but something in the back of his mind told him that wasn’t quite right.

Soap looked down at himself. His chest rig was still there, but it was lighter than he remembered. What he could see of his jacket was torn and dark with old blood; it could keep him warm for now, but its days were clearly over. His sweater and undershirt stuck to his skin under his Kevlar, old blood acting as glue, and dread filled him at the thought of peeling the bloody clothes off himself. The rest of his clothes were in comparable shape, and as Soap turned his palms up, he saw that what skin his gloves didn’t cover was scabbed over and smeared with dirt and blood.

His face felt as ragged as the rest of him, and Soap attempted to rub away the grime with the backs of his hands, to no avail. With a frustrated grunt, he gave up.

Soap’s body cried for rest, the haze of confusion still weighing down on his mind. Every part of him begged to lie back down and sleep; instead, he took inventory.

His rifle was long gone, abandoned in the church tower. All he found in his chest rig were a spare pair of gloves, a set of unused chem lights—he counted six—and his radio, which when turned on, picked up nothing. Not even static. He admittedly carried as little as possible in his chest rig to begin with, as it prevented him from feasibly fitting behind low cover; still, he wished he still had everything he’d come into Prague with. His sidearm holster was still strapped to his thigh, at least, and he drew his pistol to examine it—

He paused.

It wasn’t his trusty USP .45 he’d grabbed.

Slowly, Soap ran his thumb over the dips and scratches in the worn grip of Price’s old M1911. This gun had passed between them many times; once in the Altay Mountains, where it had saved Soap’s life; once in Ukraine, where it had saved him again; and once more in the rotting belly of a doomed gulag, where Soap had pressed it into the shaking hands of a man with one foot through death’s door. And now, once again, it had found its way back into Soap’s hands.

He couldn’t remember how.

Soap ejected the magazine. Seven rounds stared back up at him, and when he checked the chamber, he found an eighth. He didn’t have any more ammo, so he had to make these bullets count.

Silently, he slid the 1911 back into the holster. It didn’t fit entirely right, but it fit as well as it needed to.

Soap continued to check his belongings. He still had his combat knife, and it was in surprisingly decent shape; when he drew it and ran his finger across the blade, the cold metal threatened to bite into his skin.

Soap’s ID tags were, curiously, missing. Both of them. Worry gnawed at the back of Soap’s mind; why would anyone want one, let alone both, while he was still alive? Still, he refused to let himself dwell on it for too long. The carton of cigarettes in his pocket was crushed and stained, but he was able to salvage a good few out of the pack, and his lighter was blessedly intact. He rolled up his sleeve and found his watch cracked and smeared with grime; its hands didn’t move and when he brought it up to his ear, he heard exactly what he’d expected: silence.

With trembling fingers, Soap removed his chest rig, unzipped his jacket, and checked his Kevlar. Like everything else, it was beaten up and stained with blood—still, it was in decent enough shape all things considered. He’d have preferred a fresh vest, but as it was, Soap felt safer keeping it on than taking his chances without it.

‘Kevlar can only go so far,’ a little part of him whispered. He did his best to ignore that voice.

Finally, Soap gave in to his body’s exhaustion and laid flush against the cobblestone. The sun was unyielding, and he raised one hand against its light, squinting up at the sky through his fingers.

This place was too quiet.

Even in the quietest parts of Prague, where the Russians had razed everything to the ground, one could still hear the distant echoes of warfare. Aircraft had patrolled the smoky skies and gunfire could be heard across the city, echoing through the ashen streets. But the eerie silence of this place was unlike the metaphorical graveyards left behind by urban warfare. No distant sounds of battle, no smoke, no crumbling stone or splintered wood or broken glass or desperate survivors trying to pick their way through the rubble, looking for loved ones, looking for somewhere, _anywhere_ that was safe… There was only the cry of the gulls high above and the stench of the river, which stank far worse than Soap ever imagined the Vltava _could—_

Soap’s tired body screamed in protest as he shot upright again. Fighting through his light-headedness, he brought himself to his knees, then his feet, and then staggered to the nearest wall where he leaned his whole weight against the stone. He drew a shaking breath.

It wasn’t safe to assume. Things could’ve quieted down. A ceasefire, maybe, or maybe the Russians finally finished the job. No one was around because everyone had either fled or died trying. And yet…

And yet, Soap knew this wasn’t the case. Everything was wrong, deeply wrong in a way Soap couldn’t place and couldn’t ignore no matter how much he wanted to.

He took a deep breath. Then another. Then he pushed off the wall and steadied himself onto his feet before staggering to the end of the alleyway, where he peered around the corner, searching for any signs of battle—or life.

He found none. The buildings running up and down the street were locked down, barricaded with wood and metal and all bearing the same strange red markings.

This wasn’t Prague.

Soap couldn’t tell what it was. The architecture? It was a big giveaway; he knew it _wasn’t_ Prague, but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it made him think of. The architecture reminded him of England for sure, but he couldn’t narrow it down to a specific region. An older borough of London, maybe? The streets were narrow, like any old city, and paved with old, uneven cobblestone. Miserable to drive on, surely—

 _Cars._ It took Soap a moment to notice their absence. Even in the most downtown of downtown districts where modernism gave way to the old city, there still should’ve been cars. But there were none, nor were there buses, or trolleys, or scooters or bikes or any motorized vehicle Soap could think of. There were streetlamps, of course, and strange wires suspended over the street, but there was still a distinct lack of _modernism_ —what that meant exactly, Soap wasn’t sure.

Soap staggered back to where he’d left his kit and sat down. Slowly he started to put himself together again, zipping up his jacket and slipping on his chest rig.

Price wouldn’t have abandoned him. He’d have slotted the first man to suggest it had he known Soap was still alive, and all things considered, it was unlikely for the resistance to have dumped him here. Clearly the Russians hadn’t gotten their hands on him, or else…

No. He didn’t want to think about what would’ve happened had the Russians found him.

Soap took a shuddering breath. His chest hurt, but not as badly as before, and part of him wondered if he’d imagined breaking his ribs. He took another breath and winced—they were _definitely_ bruised, at the very least, but he couldn’t be sure without taking a proper look. He wasn’t bleeding anymore, either, and the blood staining his clothes was very old. The scabs on his fingers and palms were old as well, and when he rolled up his sleeves again, he spied yellow bruises mottling his warm brown skin.

Someone must’ve known he was alive. For him to have recovered to this point meant someone had to have looked after him.

But why would they leave him here? And why didn’t he _remember?_

Prague swirled through his mind. Soap brought his hands to his head and curled them into fists against his scalp, struggling to swallow down his nausea. In all his colorful years in the military, this was easily one of the most baffling situations he’d ever found himself in.

 _‘Pull yourself together,’_ he urged himself, and he gritted his teeth against the churning of his gut as he stood up again. He couldn’t sit here and let panic overtake him; he wasn’t in as bad a shape as previously thought, but he wouldn’t last long cowering in an alley with no shelter and an empty stomach. He needed someplace to hole up and look after himself and figure out the mess he’d found himself in. Maybe if he were lucky, he’d find some answers.

Soap edged out of the alleyway.

The position of the sun overhead suggested it was noon. He assumed the street stretched from north to south, but he wouldn’t know for sure until the sun dipped westward; he was missing his compass. Quickly, he took mental notes of what he needed:

Basic first aid. Food. Water. Shelter. Rest.

And he hadn’t the slightest idea where to find these things. All the buildings in sight were shut down, and he didn’t have the tools to break down the wood or metal. In the end, there was only one thing left to do.

He picked a random direction and walked.

He walked for hours, the cries of distant, unseen gulls the only company he had on his lonely trek through this unusual city. He passed by cramped townhouses and quaint storefronts, all shuttered doors and boarded windows and brick and stone and the same red paint. He found signage as he traveled but recognized none of the street names or businesses despite them all being in English. The antique posters dotting the walls around him were plastered with the names of people and places that meant nothing to him. He picked out some names, though, the ones which cropped up the most.

 _Dunwall_ was by far the most common and judging by the context of most of the posters, Soap suspected this was the city he’d found himself in—though that didn’t help him, as he’d never heard of it before. An _Empire_ was widely mentioned as well, which only compounded his confusion. Propaganda posters demanding loyalty to a certain Lord Regent continued to raise more questions than Soap could find answers to.

And then there were the warnings. Written in bold red, many of them bore the same markings painted on the fronts of most of the buildings there. They appeared with increasing frequency the more Soap traveled. Scattered across the city were notices of infected buildings, infected _corpses._ Orders to stay away on pain of death.

This place wasn’t ravaged by war. It was evacuated under the onset of a plague.

Soap would have preferred the Russians.

He managed to find some buildings not protected enough to completely stave off intrusion, and so he intruded.

Like modern modes of transportation, Soap found that many modern conveniences were missing: there were no phones, not even a landline, and nothing with a screen, and though he was able to find sinks with faucets (which yielded no water), he couldn’t find a single bathtub, shower, or even a flushing toilet. Just wash basins and filthy ceramic pots.

It was evident that scavengers had picked this place clean, because the only food Soap could find was old fruit, rotten meat, and cans chewed through by massive rats, which seemed to be the only inhabitants of this ghost town. He didn’t want to risk salvaging anything that wasn’t sealed given the circumstances, so he left behind what he found.

There were stoves and electric lights, but Soap couldn’t figure out how to power them; the power in this part of the city was clearly shot, and there weren’t any backup generators or obvious fuel sources he could sniff out. In the end, he was rewarded with nothing of use, so he moved on.

He hadn’t the slightest idea of what to make of it. Everything he saw raised more questions than could be answered, though the most pressing question by far was how he’d even gotten here. He couldn’t come up with a logical explanation as how he could have ended up here, on his own, when last he remembered he’d been dying on a table in the heart of the Czech Republic. It was almost like he’d traveled back in time.

The possibilities swirled in his mind, turning more and more fantastical with every lonely hour spent on this journey. Soap did his best not to let it stagger him, because in the end, one thing mattered above all: _survival._ Things like _who, why,_ and _how_ could be figured out later.

The street ended and split off into two narrow roads and even narrower alleys. Soap followed the maze until he found himself in another cramped alleyway bridging one street to another. Red and orange hues splashed across the sky as the sun meandered below the western horizon, and the wind carried the unforgiving chill of the coming night. Exhausted, Soap picked his way along the rubbish piled in the alley and rooted out a clear spot to sit.

He dropped to his knees with a grunt, wincing as pins and needles shot through his legs. He tucked himself against the nearest stone wall and rubbed his arms, hoping to warm himself against the breeze that still managed to sweep into the alleyway. Failing that, he gave up and fished for his cigarettes instead. They were the last thing he needed right now, but damn it, after all he’d been through, he deserved a smoke. Anything to soothe his frayed nerves.

Soap stuck a cigarette in his mouth and fumbled for the lighter. It took him a minute to find it, even longer for him to spark a light, but soon enough he was sucking down sour smoke and it hit him just how badly he’d been craving it. His eyes fluttered and he tilted his head back against the wall with a languid exhale, smoke curling out of his mouth and toward the sky. A ragged cough followed the cloud of smoke and aggravated his ribs, but once Soap settled back down, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. The stone was cool against the back of his head.

He’d failed to find any of what he needed at the start of his journey, and with sunset loomed the threat of nightfall. Soap knew he’d be risking hypothermia if he spent the night outside. He brought the cigarette to his lips, and as he took a drag, he noticed just how dry and cracked they were. He would need water soon, though what with warnings of disease, he needed a way to treat it, or at least boil it.

Soap stared up at the sky. If he couldn’t find shelter before nightfall, he was royally fucked.

He was only halfway done with his cigarette when he tossed it to the cobblestone to smolder. He muttered a low _‘alright’_ under his breath before he staggered back to his feet, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth as something in his rib popped.

Soap continued down the alley at a steady pace, running one hand along the rough stone as he made his way forward. He found where the alley spilled out onto a main thoroughfare stretching from north to south; the tall brick buildings lining the street were dark silhouettes against the darkening sky, and the smell of the river here was stronger. He finally sighted the gulls he’d been hearing this whole time, soaring in the sky high above the line of buildings.

One structure in particular, directly across from the opening of the alley, caught his eye.

At the corner of an intersection was a pub. It was an old brick building, with stained-glass windows that glittered dull red and yellow in the light of the setting sun. Sagging wooden furniture laid discarded on the walkway running round the pub’s perimeter, and though some of the windows on the upper floors were bricked off, most were not. In fact, a few were open, though there was no light nor were there signs of any life.

A dark green brise-soleil hung between the first and second floors cast shade over the narrow walkway. Parts of it were worn down by weather and time, but Soap could still make out a name stamped in bold yellow lettering:

_HOUND PITS._

The doors on the first floor weren’t shuttered off, it seemed; in any case, even if they were locked, Soap could take a chair to one of those windows. As the building looked largely intact, there could still be the possibility of Soap finding something useful, and either way the pub could serve as prospective shelter. All in all, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.

There was a chance that people were still around as well. While there was no visible light coming from inside, the intactness of this place meant that other survivors could’ve had the same idea as him and holed up here.

Relief washed over Soap over anything else at the thought of other people. Anyone still taking their chances out here could potentially share their rations and explain what was going on—and if nothing else, having company in this bizarre situation sounded much better than going it alone. They could probably provide first aid as well, which Soap desperately needed.

But they could also spell disaster.

Soap ground his teeth. He was a wanted fugitive, with a kill/capture order on his head. Despite the odd place he’d found himself in, he needed to keep that fact in the forefront of his mind. Even if his wanted status proved irrelevant here, anyone he ran into could attempt to pick a fight with him or worse, for a myriad of other reasons. Humans were unpredictable creatures, and there was no telling what would happen if Soap stumbled into a gaggle of strangers in the middle of a crisis.

This was all assuming anyone was around to begin with; just as well, this pub could be completely abandoned, and Soap was twisting himself into a knot over nothing.

No matter the odds, he needed to take the chance.

The wind picked up and Soap hunched against the chill. His layers were offering some protection, but not enough; the sooner he got inside, the better—

A gust of wind swirled behind him, separate from the river breeze. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as the air he breathed suddenly felt off, felt _wrong,_ and the soft clink of metal behind him was enough to spur Soap into action, drawing his pistol as he spun on his heel—

A sharp blow to his wrist sent the 1911 clattering to the ground. Instinct took over and Soap lashed out with his other fist, but he narrowly missed the stranger who had inexplicably appeared behind him. His assailant pounced on him and sent him toppling to the ground, and Soap hardly had time to gasp through the lightning in his ribs before something cold bit into his throat.

The stranger loomed over him and obscured the red sky, and Soap let out a strangled grunt as a knee dug sharply into his chest. He could barely see under the shadows of the stranger’s black hood, but he could make out sharp, angled metal, the hint of glass. The blade at his throat threatened to cut.

He expected the figure to speak. To follow through on his unspoken threat and slit his throat. To do something, _anything._

But nothing happened.

Instead, the hooded stranger remained frozen above him, the blade at Soap’s throat unmoving. He said nothing, shadows dancing over his mask as he slowly tilted his head to one side. Light snuck under the hood, and in the soft glow shimmered copper wire, which held together the shape of blueish-gray metal jawbone.

Soap’s knife was still on his belt. He knew he wouldn’t be able to reach it fast enough in this position, but if the stranger were to be distracted…

Soap didn’t allow himself to feel relief as the man slowly lifted away, raising the blade so that it simply hovered over him instead. The faint shadow of a skull-shaped mask stared down at him, and Soap locked eyes with that mask as he tried to predict what his assailant would do next. The stranger’s shoulders sagged, just a little.

Lightning shot through Soap’s chest again. It wasn’t pain, not this time, but something different. Stronger. He couldn’t put a name to it; it wasn’t familiarity or recognition, because he couldn’t possibly know this man, but the feeling persisted all the same, like a tether holding them together—

That’s what it was, a tether. The man himself may not have been familiar, but this feeling was. Soap knew it well.

“Who are you?” asked the stranger. His voice was smooth and deep, and it carried an accent Soap couldn’t quite place because he’d spoken too softly, too quickly.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Soap murmured, and the man cocked his head again. The blade still hovered over Soap’s throat, and the air of suspicion around the stranger still lingered. Soap’s fingers itched for the knife on his belt.

Dream or no dream, the stranger was still a threat.

Soap threw all his strength against the stranger’s weight, sending the blade flying away from his throat and the stranger toppling to one side with a surprised grunt. Soap shot to his feet and drew his knife, holding it in a defensive position as he took a step back—

There was another burst of wind, and Soap saw stars as the back of his head sharply hit the ground again. The full force of the stranger’s weight pinned him down, and before he could fully register what happened, he heard a light snap and a surprised sound from the stranger’s throat. He felt a dull pressure in his chest where his rig didn’t protect him; whatever the stranger had tried clearly couldn’t get through his Kevlar.

Soap’s grip tightened on his knife and he lashed out, only for the stranger to dodge the attack and grab his wrist. In one swift movement the stranger smashed Soap’s hand back against the cobblestone and pinned it there. Soap gritted his teeth as he felt his grip on the knife loosen. The stranger slammed his hand into the ground again, and Soap grunted in frustration as the knife tumbled from his grasp.

The stranger raised his fist, and in it something metal glinted in the dying light. The stranger brought down his fist, and Soap’s off hand shot out and grabbed him. Straining against his strength, Soap dug his fingers into the man’s arm and eyed the weapon in his hand. It looked like a dart of some kind—

The stranger released Soap’s right hand and a swift blow to the side of his head sent Soap’s vision spinning. He didn’t even realize his grip on the stranger’s hand had weakened until something needle-sharp sank into his shoulder. Soap hissed through his teeth and, using his right hand to brace himself, threw the stranger off of him again.

This time, the stranger didn’t pursue him as Soap grabbed his knife and rolled onto his feet—he simply stood up and watched Soap as he put distance between them, holding his combat knife in a defensive position. Soap’s chest burned with each heaving breath he took as he glared at the stranger, watching for any hint of action. The puncture wound in his shoulder itched.

 _What are you waiting for?_ The stranger stood still, almost relaxed in his posture, and Soap’s jaw ached as he ground his teeth. _Do something!_

The stranger silently tilted his head. The mask stared blankly from under his hood.

Soap wasn’t aware of the lightheadedness creeping up on him until he realized his arm was shaking. Bile rose in his throat as his vision began to swim, and Soap let out a shaking breath as he felt his grip on his knife slowly weaken. His legs swayed before his knees gave out entirely, and with a low cry Soap fell to the ground. He didn’t realize the stranger had moved until he felt strong arms holding him upright, and he looked up into the man’s skull mask.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” Soap demanded weakly. Metal clanged against stone as his grip finally loosened entirely and his knife fell to the ground. His throat went tight with terror as he realized how swiftly unnatural exhaustion was encroaching on him.

“Sorry,” the stranger said gently. Blackness dotted Soap’s vision, and he went limp.

* * *

Metal and dust.

The smell of metal and dust hit him before anything else, lingering in the stagnant, cool air that washed over his face. The pounding in his skull came next, followed by nausea, and Soap let out a groan as he rolled his head to one side. His cheek brushed against something soft and smooth, and as he curled his lead-heavy hands into fists, his fingers tangled into something soft and thin and scratchy.

Fleeting memories jumped across his mind, back and forth between clarity and oblivion. Prague was years away, a gray blur living in the back of his mind. An alley, closer. Walking. Walking. Walking for hours, through an empty city so familiar yet so alien. A cigarette, a pub, a burst of wind—

Soap opened his eyes and found himself nose-to-nose with a brick wall. He turned his head and as his vision eased into focus, he found the ceiling, spied the far wall of the room, the railing of a descending staircase. Yellow light filtered up through a perforated metal floor, and though it was dim, it was painfully bright to Soap’s sensitive eyes. His eyes slid shut, not entirely of his own free will, and he turned his head back toward the wall.

He didn’t remember how he got into the bed, and if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t have the energy to question it, either. His head spun with the slightest movement and spikes of nausea shot up his throat; in any case, a bed was a far more comfortable place to feel like shit than stone. He knew on some level he should’ve been alarmed, but he couldn’t be bothered. The warm sickness, though unpleasant, was almost comfortable in how familiar it was; not unlike the feeling he’d get from opiates, only this high didn’t even have the decency to be quasi-pleasant.

Cool air rushed up Soap’s spine as he found it within himself to shift into a slightly more comfortable position. Cold sweat trickled down his brow; he lifted one hand to wipe it away, but the movement spurred his stomach into violent protest and he dropped his hand with a defeated sigh, letting it dangle off the side of the bed. The coarse blanket clung to his bare skin, slick with sweat—

His eyes snapped open.

_What?_

Fighting through the nausea, Soap nudged the blanket with his leg and was rewarded with the sensation of wool gliding across bare skin. He wriggled some more and breathed a sigh of relief when he confirmed he still wore his boxers. He didn’t have much opportunity to wonder where the rest of his clothes had gone when he heard footsteps, and he turned his head to blearily stare in the direction of the sound.

A pair of owlish gray eyes peered back down at him through a set of small round glasses. Soap’s first thought was that this must be the stranger he’d met in the alley, but that suspicion was immediately quashed; he was smaller, slighter, and dressed in baggy clothes belonging to a man twice his size. His little spectacles were perched on an arched, crooked nose, and his thin lips pressed into a concerned line.

“Take it easy,” said the man. His words floated out on a gentle lilt, and Soap found himself puzzled by his accent; he sounded almost American, but something about his voice carried just the faintest traces of generic southern-Englishness that Soap couldn’t quite pin down to one region, let alone one city. “You look like you’ve been through a lot.”

“Where—” Soap’s voice caught in his throat, and he swallowed around a cotton tongue. “Where am I?”

The man, with a regretful upturn of his brow, shook his head.

A second man stepped in behind him. _This_ was the stranger from the alley; though his coat and his mask were gone, his broad shoulders and lean, tall build gave him away. He looked down at Soap with eyes so dark they were almost black, and his thick brows were knitted together in an expression of…familiarity? Vague worry? Whatever it was, it triggered the same familiar tug in Soap’s ribs.

“How are you feeling?” asked the man from the alley. His accent was clearer—unlike the man with glasses, his accent was instantly recognizable as Latin American, though Soap still couldn’t pinpoint a specific region.

“Like death warmed over,” Soap answered dryly.

A small grin tugged on the man’s lips, though the hint of an apology still lingered in his tired eyes. Those eyes looked so out of place on a face so real, so clear outside the churning belly of purgatory.

Questions danced on the tip of Soap’s tongue. But it wasn’t the time to ask.

“You may be feeling a bit of nausea.” The slow, gently lilted words pulled Soap out of his thoughts and he glanced at the man with glasses. “And perhaps some light-headedness—side-effects of the sleep poison, I’m afraid—but!”—he seemed to notice Soap’s eyes widen in alarm—“It will wear off soon enough. Completely harmless.”

“Sorry again,” interjected the man from the alley, and if Soap hadn’t been struggling to keep his head up, he’d have responded with an incredulous snort.

“In any case,” continued the man with glasses, as if the other hadn’t spoken, “your unconsciousness allowed me to examine you properly. And, ah, well…” He sniffed as Soap propped himself up on his elbows. “You must understand, but with how covered in blood you were, I feared severe injury, and so—”

“You took my clothes,” Soap finished for him, and the man nodded. “At least”—Soap’s breath hitched again and he struggled around a choked cough—“augh, at least tell me you were able to salvage something?”

“Yes, well, you see—”

“He was forced to cut them off,” the man from the alley finished bluntly, and the man with glasses pursed his lips. “Well, most of them, anyway. Your…vests are fine, and we’ve left your drawers intact—”

“At least you had the decency to do that,” Soap muttered, and he lifted his blanket with one hand. “What are you, anyway? Some type of medic?”

The man with glasses drew a breath as if to retort, then released it in a short sigh. “Ah, of course,” he said dismissively. “Most people don’t recognize me straight away.”

Soap couldn’t help the quirk of his brow. “Should I?”

The man with glasses stared, his wide-eyed gaping bordering on offended, but Soap ignored him and lifted his blanket further.

An ugly patchwork of yellowing bruises climbed up Soap’s ribs and wound around to his back. Beads of sweat dotted his clammy skin, and flakes of dried blood still stuck to the hair on his chest and belly, but for the most part, he’d been cleaned up. He pushed the blanket down to his hips and let it rest on his boxers, then gingerly prodded at his ribs, at the ring of bruises and healed over scabs around his scar—

He froze.

His _scar._

Soap’s fingers shook as they brushed over the angry, puckered skin that was his mostly healed stab wound. Across his mind flashed the familiar cold haze of blood loss and the sticky heat pooling down under his clothes, rushing down his legs and squelching in his boots. All of it came rushing back full-force and the memory was almost enough to send Soap back to the mattress.

Logically, it would’ve been impossible for him to have wandered around for so long with an open wound of that caliber. He knew damn well that wouldn’t have woken up at all outside a hospital bed. Still, seeing the proof of his rapid recovery stunned him all the same, and he couldn’t help the whisper breaking past his lips:

_“That’s not possible.”_

The man with glasses asked, “What’s not possible?”

_Clang._

The dull ring of boots on metal snapped Soap out of his trance and, still weighed down by the effects of sedative, he lifted his head toward the sound. The man from the alley and the man with glasses turned in unison, the latter of the two clasping his hands together as a third man emerged from the stairwell.

He was _huge—_ taller than the man from the alley, and much broader. He wore a dark blue uniform that vaguely reminded Soap of the kind he’d seen in period films, and the light shining through the floor cast a yellow glow on his face as he turned toward them. The deep-set eyes that fixed Soap with a cold stare were as severe as the jagged scar cutting a long path down his left cheek. Whoever he was, he was in charge.

And if the way he stared at Soap was of any indication, he wasn’t happy.

“Admiral,” said the man from the alley, and Soap’s stomach plummeted. “We need a few more minutes, he’s only just woken up—”

The Admiral’s glare turned on the stranger.

“I’ve been waiting for almost two hours,” he retorted. The stranger from the alley averted his gaze as the Admiral swiftly approached and stared him down, one gray brow arched with annoyance. “He’s conscious. That means he’s ready.”

His attention turned back to Soap.

“I have several questions,” began the Admiral. “Most importantly, I want to know who you are, who sent you, and how you found us. And I suggest you start talking,” he added with an irritated edge to his voice, “because you haven’t caught me at my most patient.”

Soap grit his teeth against his worsening nausea.

This was a situation he was prepared for. He’d trained for it, expected it to come to pass sooner or later. But all the preparation in the world couldn’t stop the cold fear from creeping up his spine at his defenselessness, his _helplessness._ One wrong slip could push the Admiral too far, and Soap wasn’t keen on seeing what happened when his patience ran out.

But still, something wasn’t right.

Like everything else Soap had come across, the Admiral’s uniform was outdated. It belonged in a museum, not on the back of someone of respectable rank—though what era it reminded him of specifically, he couldn’t say. It seemed vaguely nineteenth century, at least. What else, he had an odd-looking pistol strapped across his chest, and when Soap glanced down, he spied a scabbard hanging from his belt. The Admiral had also spoken with an odd accent; almost American, but with a vaguely English tone, along with something else Soap couldn’t put his finger on.

The piece to the puzzle was dangling right in front of Soap, but he couldn’t see it. It was clear this so-called Admiral was conducting an interrogation, but if Soap played his cards right, he could get some answers of his own.

“To tell you the truth,” Soap answered, “I found you completely by accident. You lot are the first ones I’ve come across since I woke up.”

The Admiral quirked a brow. “Since you woke up?”

“Aye, in this city. Last I remember, I wasn’t anywhere near here.” Soap snorted. “Not that I know where _here_ is, anyway.”

“You ‘don’t know where _here_ is?’” The Admiral crossed his arms. “Care to elaborate?”

Soap’s arms wavered under his weight, threatening to give way. He sat up straighter, turning around in the bed so that he could lean against the wall. He let one leg dangle over the edge of the mattress.

“I mean,” he said, and gestured vaguely around himself, “I don’t know where here is. This city. I don’t remember how I even got here; what I do remember is that I woke up in an alley by myself, and I wandered for hours until I found you. I was hoping I could find someone who’d tell me what the hell is going on.”

“And you couldn’t figure that out yourself?” The Admiral cocked his head forward expectantly. “You didn’t see any street signs? Posters? The Lord Regent’s propaganda is plastered all over the damn place—a child could’ve put it together.”

“I saw the bloody signs,” Soap snapped, allowing annoyance to edge into his voice, “and nothing was familiar to me. This place is backwards to begin with, so forgive me if I’m not intimately familiar with your little town.”

 _“Backwards?”_ The Admiral let out a sound that was almost a laugh. “Dunwall is the most technologically-advanced city in the nation. In the _Empire._ Are you sure you’ve got your head screwed on right, son?”

“Your whole bloody Empire must be arse about face, then,” Soap retorted. “Where are we, anyway? You lot sound like Yanks, but given the circumstances, I doubt I’ve hopped the pond.”

The irritated look on the Admiral’s face faltered with the confused furrow of his brow and his gaze flickered toward the man from the alley, who simply shrugged. When the Admiral glanced over instead at the man with glasses, he received a similarly puzzled response. Finally, he turned back to Soap; he was no less stern, but plainly bemused.

“What are you talking about?”

Soap blinked. “You’re taking the piss, right?” The Admiral’s expression went unchanged, and he pressed, “You’ve never heard of Yanks? Americans?” The baffled looks—and silence—persisted, and with growing desperation he snapped, “Where the hell are we that you haven’t heard of the bloody United States?”

Soap’s throat tightened as the three men before him exchanged another look, their collective bewilderment only becoming more blatant. After a long pause, the Admiral asked the man with glasses:

“Has your sleep poison played tricks on his mind?”

“O-of course not!” stammered the man with glasses, and he wrung his hands. “I mean…it shouldn’t? At most he should be experiencing some nausea and lightheadedness, but not, um…delusions?”

“I’m not delusional!” Soap insisted, and the Admiral sighed sharply and screwed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m telling you, I’m not bloody delusional!”

“A concussion, then?”

“He had no other symptoms,” the man with glasses said. “And no sign of head trauma.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?” It was the man from the alley who’d spoken; after so much silence, hearing his voice again caught Soap off guard. He looked up at the man, who fixed him with an unreadable stare. “You woke up in an alley somewhere and wandered, yes? What do you remember before that?”

Soap looked down at his lap. He remembered only fragments of what happened at Prague. Most of what followed his leap from the church tower was a blur, and after the safehouse…nothing. He tried to conjure something, anything from the back of his mind, but there was nothing except a wide gap in his memory.

“Last I remember,” he began in a low voice, “I was in Prague. On a mission. It went sour, and I was wounded. I was brought to a safehouse for emergency treatment, and while there, I lost consciousness.” He raised his head, looking between the three men before him. “Then I woke up here.”

“That’s enough.”

The Admiral’s voice was sharp with impatience. Soap, pressing his lips together, met the man’s cold gaze.

“I’ve humored you long enough,” he continued. “You’re delusional, enough so to either believe your own nonsense, or believe bullshitting me will get you anywhere.”

Soap sat up straighter and opened his mouth to defend himself, but the Admiral cut in before he could, voice just slightly raised.

“None of the places you’ve listed exist anywhere in the Empire. No city or nation by any of those names. If you’re not insane beyond help, now’s your chance to tell the truth. And for your sake”—his voice dropped—“I suggest you take it, because if you choose to carry on, I’ll cut short this little game of yours. Do you understand?”

Soap ground his teeth, frustrated and baffled and frightened to the point of wanting to scream. He was running out of things to say, and he had a feeling the Admiral wasn’t bluffing; one hand had wandered down to his hip to rest on the pommel of his sword, and now his fingers were sliding down to grab at the hilt.

The Admiral edged the sword out of the scabbard by an inch. The blade glinted in the low light.

“I don’t know how to make you believe me,” Soap muttered, half to himself. The Admiral didn’t budge. “I’m telling the truth.”

“Sir…” The stranger from the alley stepped closer to the Admiral. “Listen to him.”

“I’ve listened long enough!” The Admiral’s grip on his sword tightened, and Soap heard the man with glasses draw a low, sharp breath. “Whether he’s playing games or he’s insane, I’ve entertained enough of this nonsense.”

“Outsider’s eyes!” exclaimed the man from the alley. “There is something strange at play, clearly, but _listen_ to him! He’s no liar, and he’s of no harm to us!”

“He’s of no harm,” agreed the Admiral. “Because I’m going to make sure he won’t be.”

“ _Havelock—!”_

Metal sang through the air as the Admiral drew his sword in one fluid motion. Soap flung himself back against the wall as the blade flew forward and pressed against his throat. The cold metal bit into his clammy skin, threatening to cut.

“This is your last chance,” warned the Admiral, “to tell me the truth.”

Soap’s gaze flickered over to the man from the alley. He returned the look with a shallow nod.

“I’m not delusional,” he said firmly. The blade didn’t budge. “And I’m not a liar. What I said was the truth; I was on a mission in another city, I was wounded, and then I passed out. I don’t know why or how, but while I was asleep, someone brought me here—I don’t know who—and here is where I woke up.” He locked eyes with the Admiral. “I woke up and I wandered. From noon ‘till sunset. I found this place and your man found me. If you think I’ve come here to threaten you and yours, well, you’re mistaken, because I found you out of dumb luck.” He drew a breath. “I can’t make you believe me, but that’s the truth.”

Havelock glared down at him through narrowed eyes, his expression—and his sword—unwavering as he considered Soap’s response. A few moments passed where Soap didn’t dare swallow, all too aware of how easy it would be for the Admiral to cut his throat open.

“Corvo.” The name fell flat from Havelock’s lips. “Your thoughts?”

“My thoughts, sir,” said the man from the alley, “are that there’s more going on than meets the eye.” He paused. “And that it would be best if you put your sword down.”

Corvo brought a hand to Havelock’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Havelock’s gaze shifted in his direction, and after a brief moment, the murderous air about him lifted. Soap let out a low breath as Havelock’s sword arm withdrew, watching as he slid his sword back into the scabbard. Satisfied, Corvo released his shoulder, and Havelock—still frustrated, though with significantly less intent to kill—relaxed his posture.

“You haven’t the slightest idea where you are?”

“None.”

“So Dunwall means nothing to you, after all.”

“Nothing before today.”

“Well.” The Admiral gestured vaguely around himself. “Welcome to Dunwall. Or what’s left of it. Capital city of Gristol, and the seat of the Empire of the Isles. But that must be nonsense to you.”

Soap nodded slowly. The skeptic in the back of his head whispered that he was being lied to, but he’d seen too much of the city to even begin to entertain that thought.

The pieces were finally starting to come together: the strange architecture that seemed English at first glance; the odd signs and posters that listed names and places Soap had never heard of; the streets emptied on account of plague, untouched by the ravages of World War Three; and the clothing of the men standing before him; it all pointed to one thing.

It was a stupid question. A tremendously stupid question that stemmed from a suspicion Soap had from the start but refused to acknowledge seriously until now. Soap almost asked, but the man with glasses stole the opportunity first.

“We should try to figure out how long you’ve been unconscious,” he said, “before we continue.” He turned his owlish gaze on Soap. “What was the date when you fell unconscious? Do you remember?”

“Aye. It was the 11th of October.”

Havelock blinked.

“…Of _what?”_

“…October?” A blank look was the response Soap received. “The month of October.”

The Admiral exchanged a look with Corvo, who only shook his head.

“You can’t be serious. You don’t even have the same calendar?”

“And if I may ask,” the man with glasses said softly, “what was the year?”

Soap fixed the man with a stare. There was something in his eyes Soap couldn’t quite read, but he didn’t need to; he understood all the same.

“2018.”

The temperature in the room dropped as Soap uttered the year. Corvo and the Admiral exchanged twin expressions of shock before staring him down with varying levels of concern. The man with glasses, meanwhile, wasn’t surprised in the least; if anything, the way he looked at Soap was almost pitying.

“The year,” he said slowly, “is 1837.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Here we goooooo—_  
>  So after this point, I'm gonna try to stick to as regular a schedule as possible. As long as I have a sizeable enough backlog of chapters, I'll post once a week every Friday; if I run out of content (either because I need to take a hiatus or other reasons), I'll say so in the author's notes and return to regular posting once I've built up a satisfactory backlog for myself. I would like to stay as regular as possible, but you know...life.


	5. Strangers in a Strange Land

_1837._

A flurry of questions rushed through Soap’s mind, but everything he wanted to say died in his throat as he stared wide-eyed at the men before him. A shuddering exhale escaped him as the reality of what had been suggested—of what part of him suspected—finally sank in, and he dropped his gaze to the floor. Struggling against a wave of sickness, he curled his hands into his fists and dug his nails into his palms.

 _1837._ Said to him like he was some poor lunatic who’d lost his way. _The year is 1837._

It almost made sense. The outdated clothes, the lack of technology, the old architecture, of _course_ it all made sense. Everything lacked a modern touch because nothing here _was_ modern.

And what’s more, these people spoke of places Soap had never heard of, and they didn’t recognize the United States, or Prague, hell, not even the month of October. And what else, there was something off about them. Soap wasn’t able to pinpoint any of these people or their city into an exact era because everything about them only vaguely suggested the nineteenth century. It was like history had been perverted into something almost familiar, but distinct in its own right.

But Soap couldn’t accept it. He couldn’t accept the idea that he’d been blasted so hard out of that church tower he’d landed all the way in the beginning of some warped version of the Victorian Era. That kind of rubbish was only possible in science fiction, and, and…

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

“So…” Havelock let out a low sigh and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, wearing an almost pained expression. “Your name…?”

“…MacTavish,” Soap answered after a long moment.

“MacTavish.” He shook his head. “What I would like to know, _MacTavish_ , is how on earth you came to the conclusion that we are two hundred years in the future.”

“What _I_ want to know,” Soap said sharply, “is how I wound up two hundred years in the _past.”_

“I think I know what happened here,” said the man with glasses.

All eyes were suddenly on him and he shifted uncomfortably under the attention. He adjusted his spectacles.

“Now,” he began, “this is a theory I’ve been toying with since my days at the Academy, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen undeniable proof of its validity.” He turned to face Havelock.

“Sir, I trust you’re familiar with the Void?”

The Admiral scoffed. “Of course I am.”

“As you’re well aware, then,” the man with glasses said, “the Void is a world which mirrors our own.” He brought his two index fingers together in parallel. “It exists on a different plane, separated from us”—he parted his fingers—“by a veil. The Abbey says this veil can only be penetrated by the Outsider himself, but many within the Academy suspect that, with the right technology, any one person can find a way across.”

“Are you suggesting, Piero,” demanded Havelock, “that he’s come from the Void?”

“Not at all!” Piero responded. “You see, many natural philosophers—myself included—have theorized that the Void is indeed a place that exists, and is not the only plane of existence mirroring ours. There are countless other planes, separated from us by a thin veil not unlike the one which separates us from the Void.”

Soap wrinkled his nose. “Multiverses,” he said, unable to stop his apprehension from seeping into his voice. “You’re trying to explain this with multiverses.”

Piero’s head swiveled to face him. “You have a name for it?”

“Parallel universes, alternate realities, all that shite, yeah? You’re suggesting I jumped through space-time.”

Approval lit up Piero’s eyes. “Precisely!”

“You’re insane.”

Piero’s brows pulled together in a frown. “I assure you,” he said, his slow voice taking on a distinctly sharp, cold tone, “this theory has been debated among natural philosophers for some time. I would not be suggesting it if it were not a serious possibility. How else would you explain what’s happened to you?”

Soap opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

This had to be a dream. None of this could be real. The most realistic explanation was that he’d slipped into a coma on that table in Prague, and all of this was a fabrication of a mind on the edge of death. It was uncomfortable, but it was the truth. It had to be. Nothing else would’ve been possible—certainly not interdimensional travel.

But the fear that maybe this was something beyond a dream still lurked in the back of Soap’s mind.

“I’m assuming, Piero,” Havelock put in, “that up until now, your theory has never been proven?”

Piero’s frown melted away and he lifted a finger at Havelock.

“Such is the nature of theories.”

Soap let out a low sigh. “Right, fine,” he muttered. “I’ll bite. Let’s say you’re right, and I did hop from my reality to yours. We don’t have the technology for interdimensional travel yet, and neither do you. So what happened?”

“As I said,” Piero began eagerly, “the veil is thin and very fragile. Even without the proper technology, certain events can throw off the natural balance and cause damage to the metaphysical—er, theoretically, of course. It could’ve been any number of things: a disaster, an unusual shift in the cosmos, a war—”

Soap frowned. “A war?”

“You said you were on a mission,” the Admiral said. “Is that relevant?”

“…Aye,” Soap answered after a moment’s hesitation. “We’re in the middle of a war right now.”

“Yes!” Piero excitedly shook one fist. “Yes, that could be it!” He leaned toward Soap—a little too close for comfort—and asked, “on what scale?”

Soap leaned back against the wall. “What does it matter?” he asked sharply.

“It matters greatly!” explained Piero. “Your war’s effect on the veil depends, in part, on the scale. A smaller conflict may not have much effect, but a larger one has the potential to—”

 _“Fine.”_ Soap let out another sigh and shook his head. “It’s massive. The largest conflict we’ve had in almost seventy-five years.”

Havelock quirked a brow but said nothing.

“It’s possible, then, that the death and destruction caused by such a war could’ve weakened the veil.” Piero stood up straight again. “Yes…and you sustained severe injury, I gather?”

“Life-threatening,” Soap admitted. “This”—he gestured toward his partially-healed wound—“reopened, and I started to bleed out. I think I broke my ribs, too, and probably ruptured something.”

“Does your theory explain how his wounds were mended?” asked Havelock.

Piero clicked his tongue. “The veil mended him, perhaps.”

The dissatisfaction on Havelock’s face was almost on par with Soap’s.

“And Piero,” Corvo interjected, “following your theory, is it not possible that the plague crisis here could open up the veil on our side?”

Piero shook a finger at Corvo. “Ex- _actly!”_ he exclaimed. “And with the veil weakened on both sides—”

“—The path was opened,” Corvo finished for him, “and he passed through. What do you think, sir?”

Piero and Corvo looked expectantly at the Admiral, who stood with his arms crossed and apprehension spelled out plainly on his face.

“…Perhaps it could be possible,” he said after a long moment, his voice tinged with exasperation. “But what other evidence do we have?”

“Plenty!”

“And that would be?”

“The equipment he carried when Corvo brought him in.” Piero pushed his glasses up his nose. “Quite unusual, to say the least.”

Havelock raised a brow. “You never did tell me what he had on him.”

Piero smiled nervously and gestured toward Corvo. “I thought he did.”

The expectant look fell onto Corvo.

“I suspect you’d have ordered him killed on the spot had I told you he was armed.”

Both of the Admiral’s brows arched this time. “He was _armed?”_

“Yes, and with the most peculiar weapons!” Piero spun on his heel and hurried to the other side of the room, oblivious to the way Havelock glared Corvo down. His annoyance was palpable, but Corvo seemed unbothered; he simply looked down at Soap with eyes that said, _‘You’re welcome.’_

Piero returned a moment later with an armful of Soap’s gear; his knife, 1911, and broken watch sat on top of his bloody Kevlar, and his chest rig was slung over Piero’s shoulder. The angry look on the Admiral’s face melted into one of reserved interest as the gear was presented to him, and he first reached for the gun.

“Strange,” he muttered. Soap winced as he watched the Admiral handle the 1911, hoping Piero at least had the foresight to disarm it.

“Indeed!” Piero babbled. “It’s lightweight, much smaller than the whale oil pistols carried by our military. It doesn’t seem to use whale oil, however, and it uses a mechanism I’ve never seen before in a firearm. I figured out how to check the ammo, and even the bullets are strangely—”

Havelock interrupted, “Tell me you didn’t put them _back in.”_

“…I did, sir.”

An annoyed grunt escaped Havelock and he fumbled with the gun. “How do you work this damn thing—”

Soap opened his mouth to instruct him, but Havelock figured it out and ejected the magazine. Defeated, Soap sat back and allowed him to shake bullets into his hand.

“…Odd.” He held the bullets out to Corvo. “Have you seen anything like this?”

Corvo shook his head.

“Seven rounds total. Fascinating.” He handed the bullets to Corvo and clicked the magazine back into place.

“There’s eight,” Soap said, and Havelock raised a brow. “There’s one loaded in the chamber. Rack the slide.”

Havelock did so, with some struggle, and ejected the final bullet into his palm. With a low ‘huh,’ he handed it off to Corvo and returned the 1911 to Piero. The next thing he grabbed was Soap’s knife. He drew it out of its sheath, and his expression shifted into one of interest as he ran a finger along the knife’s edge.

“He had this peculiar timepiece as well, and he was also wearing these…strange vests.” Piero held up the Kevlar and shrugged the shoulder over which Soap’s chest rig was draped. “It was a struggle to get these off of him without damaging it, but I managed.”

Havelock exchanged the knife for the Kevlar, and Piero handed the chest rig off to Corvo.

“That’s Kevlar,” Soap explained as Havelock frowned at the vest. “Well, a vest made of Kevlar. It’s body armor. Heat resistant, strong. Most protective equipment these days uses it as a main component.”

“There’s nothing like this in the Isles, sir,” said Piero. “We have gambeson, of course, and metal and leather armor. But here comes a man with armor that is clearly _not_ metal, nor leather, nor any natural fiber we’ve yet seen. And look, despite the state he was in, the vest is still in immaculate shape—”

“And _this_ vest is unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” Corvo put in, “as are its contents.” He pulled Soap’s radio out of one of the pouches and held it out to the Admiral, who eyed it curiously. “Look at this, sir.”

Soap scoffed. “That’s just a radio.”

“What’s it for?” asked Havelock.

“Communication. You use it to transmit and receive radio waves, which allows audio communication in two directions.”

“And this.” Corvo produced one of the chem lights from another pocket. “He has several of these.”

Havelock’s brow furrowed. “Is it a weapon?”

“Not at all—it’s a chem light.” When his hosts looked at him curiously, Soap beckoned for the chem light. Corvo handed it over, and Soap removed it from its protective wrapper. “They’re useful in a pinch; they provide light using a chemical reaction, not electricity. Look—”

The three men before him looked on in varying states of awe as Soap firmly bent the chem light until he heard a snap and it began to glow bright green. He shook it to mix the compound and held it up for his hosts to see. Havelock hesitantly reached for the chem light, and once it was given to him, he rolled it over in his palm with a curious expression. With wide eyes, Corvo leaned closer to get a better look.

“Incredible,” Corvo muttered. “How long do these last?”

“Depends on what kind of chem light you get, but these can last for several hours.”

“Several hours…” Corvo shook his head. “Imagine what we could do with this kind of technology.”

“Indeed,” Havelock said, and he held the chem light out to Corvo. “Touch it.”

Corvo reached out and gingerly rested the tips of his fingers on the side of the tube. He blinked and looked up at the Admiral in surprise.

“You feel that?” Havelock asked. “It’s barely warm.”

“Is that so?” Piero snatched the chem light out of Havelock’s hand and held it up over his head, peering at the brightly glowing compound. “Astonishing. What sort of chemical reaction produces such a brilliant glow, and without giving off heat?”

“I’m a soldier, not a chemist—”

“Right, right. You have more; may I have one of them for study?”

“Piero—” Havelock sighed, his voice heavy with exasperation, and shook his head. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. None of these gadgets prove anything. For all we know, this could all be the result of a Sokolov project we haven’t heard of.”

“If that were the case,” Corvo pointed out, “this technology would be everywhere.” He gave Havelock a pointed look. “Like the Tallboys.”

Havelock scowled at the chem light, and then at Soap. The skepticism was plain on his face, and Soap couldn’t help the twinge of sympathy in his gut. He was skeptical too, after all, though his reasoning was entirely different.

“Sir,” began Corvo, and he took the Kevlar from Havelock and dropped it and the chest rig on the bed beside Soap. “Please, hear me out. I believe Piero. I realize his theory is…farfetched, but you and I both know that we know nothing about the strange things possible in this world. You’ve admitted yourself the oddities you’ve witnessed out at sea”—Corvo tilted his head expectantly—“where the veil is known to be weak.”

Havelock nodded, his exasperation only growing.

“Perhaps it’s not impossible for our guest to have come from a place beyond the veil,” Corvo said.

“And what do you think, mister…” Piero’s face twitched into a strange expression, and he turned towards Soap.

“…MacTavish, it was?”

“Aye,” Soap answered, “and I think all of you are a morphine-induced coma dream.”

Silence fell over the room for a moment as the three men looked between each other. Finally, Piero clicked his tongue.

“Understandable,” he admitted, “given your position. But I assure you, this is very real.”

Soap bit down on his tongue. Frustration ate away at him—frustration _and_ fear, because if Piero’s theory was correct…

The notion of interdimensional travel due to metaphysical anomalies was a concept far too wide and spiky to fit in Soap’s head. This was all far more vivid than any dream he’d had before, but nevertheless he was certain that this had to be a dream. The truth was that he was in a coma somewhere, clinging to life, and this was a product of his imagination. He could wake up from this. He _had_ to wake up from this. And he was certain that even if he didn’t wake up, eventually this dream would end, one way or another—a grim reality, but it was indeed reality. He wasn’t sure of how he could convince these people of that, or if convincing them at all was possible to begin with. Not that he would need to, anyway; what was the purpose of trying to reason with a figment of his imagination?

Still, that didn’t mean it would be a bad idea to stay in these people’s good graces.

“Right.” Havelock’s firm voice pulled Soap out of his thoughts. “No matter how he got here, there’s still the question of what to do with him.”

Corvo fixed the Admiral with an intent stare. “He stays.”

“Well, I’m certainly not letting him _go,”_ Havelock shot back. “He’s seen our base of operations, and Corvo, he’s seen you. I don’t need to tell you what happens if he flees and runs his mouth to the wrong people.”

Corvo and Havelock exchanged a grim look.

“…I’ve got a feeling,” Soap muttered, “just a wee suspicion, that I’ve stumbled into something criminal.”

Piero sniffed. “Technically, yes.”

Soap arched a brow. _“Technically?_ Care to explain that technicality?”

Havelock shot him a warning glare. “Don’t forget where you are.”

“We’re not…” Corvo paused, then let out a low sigh.

“We’re not bad people,” he continued. “Our cause is just.”

“Aye, well, everyone’s got their _just causes,”_ Soap retorted, and he met the Admiral’s gaze. “So, what’ll it be, sir?”

Frustration was spelled out on Havelock’s face, but the gears in his head were clearly turning; his silence hung heavy in the air and Soap caught himself gnawing on the inside of his cheek.

The possibility that he’d stumbled into something illicit escaped him earlier, but the realization shed a whole new light on the situation and on the three men before him. He now understood Havelock’s hostile reaction to his presence; if some confused random had stumbled into their base of operations, Soap and Price likely would’ve reacted the same…though perhaps with less mercy. But then the question became: What were these people doing?

Soap preferred to find out before getting involved, but he feared he didn’t have much of a choice.

Havelock made an irritated sound in the back of his throat and shook his head.

“I can’t believe this.”

Corvo leaned toward him. “So then…”

“…Fine.”

“Fine, Admiral?”

“He’s with us.” He shot Corvo a pointed look. “As long as it takes me to figure out what to do with him.”

* * *

Soap scooped the remains of his dinner from the bottom of the can, finding barely enough broth to fill his spoon. He hungrily brought it to his lips and let the broth spread over his tongue; it tasted faintly of salt and of the slightly fishy, almost beef-like flavor of whale meat, and with a sniff he dug around for one last spoonful. The spoon shook in his unsteady grip.

Security had been the excuse Havelock used when he made the decision to lock Soap in the workshop with Piero. He had almost moved him to the _kennel_ —the thought of which sent shudders down Soap’s spine—but Corvo and Piero had successfully convinced him of other options. Piero had been hellbent on having Soap accessible for study and promises of _sedation_ and _close observation_ had been enough for Havelock to relent to their wishes. Corvo hadn’t questioned that, despite his obvious displeasure, and Soap thought it best to follow his example; in the end, the arrangement was unpleasant, but it was far better than being locked in a dog cage all night.

Thankfully, Piero had been kind enough not to keep Soap knocked out all night. The low, frequent doses of sleep poison was enough to keep Soap bedbound but not unconscious, and as miserable as the constant nausea and tremors were, Soap preferred it to being asleep. The sleep poison served as a painkiller as well, and the high was quasi-pleasant enough that it almost grew on him. All he was missing now was a good brew and some entertainment.

The can yielded no more broth. Soap dropped the spoon in the can and set them both aside on the desk, then stretched out across the bed with a sigh. Laying down helped settle his churning stomach.

The stove burned low, and Soap shivered as the draft seeped further and further into the room. Soap briefly considered fetching Piero to show him how to refuel the stove; he’d gathered the strength to check it earlier, but it used a mechanism he wasn’t familiar with, and he wasn’t about to risk damaging the thing wholesale with his drug-induced clumsiness. Ultimately, he decided to leave it alone—he didn’t fancy the tumble he’d take down the stairs, and even if he did, it had been enough of a struggle to get Piero off his back in the first place. The owl-eyed man had been bursting at the seams with questions Soap didn’t have the mental capacity to answer, and he was afraid that if he fetched him, Piero would take that as an invitation.

Soap adjusted the sleeves of the old tweed jacket Piero had lent him. The man seemed to prefer baggy clothes, so despite his narrow frame, the garments he had been able to spare—the old jacket and a dusty pair of trousers—fit Soap comfortably enough.

He itched for a smoke. Instead, he reached for the pile of books next to Piero’s bed. He grabbed one at random without reading the title and thumbed through it. The sleep poison’s hold on his mind made it hard to concentrate, so he let the words blur on the page as his mind wandered.

Piero had refused to disclose anything about what he and the others were up to after they’d been left alone—Havelock’s orders, of course, but Soap had hoped the man would have at least one rebellious bone in him. As a result, he was forced to piece together what little information he had.

The Admiral was clearly in charge of what looked to be a strictly civilian operation. Piero had been kind enough to disclose their location; the Hound Pits Pub and its adjoining tower and workshop were on the outer edges of the Old Port District, right on the river. As far as any of them were aware, this pub was the only place left inhabited after the evacuation and subsequent blockade of the Old Port.

_“Evacuation?” Soap slipped on the jacket and gave Piero a pointed look. “Because of plague.”_

_Piero’s face dropped._

_“Because of plague.”_

Soap curled the end of one dog-eared page. This plague, Piero had explained, had been ravaging the city for nearly two years. It first appeared in the riverside slums, then spiraled out of control and spread to every corner of Dunwall. With no cure available, there was no telling when the disease would stop spreading.

_“Since the onset of the plague, I’ve been hard at work at developing a cure,” said Piero. “I have the utmost confidence my formula is on the right path, but without the backing of the Academy, it’s been…a slow process. And ever since the Empress’ death…”_

_A look of sadness crossed Piero’s face and he wrung his hands._

_“MacTavish, tell me again about this war of yours?”_

He would wake up eventually. Soap continued to tell himself that. He would wake up and he would recover, and then he would write this whole thing off as a dream as he and Price returned to their relentless hunt for Makarov.

Soap ground his teeth. He turned the page.

Piero’s theory was impossible. It was so ridiculous, it belonged in a bad sci-fi film, but some little part of him wondered if it didn’t hold some weight. All of this felt too tangible, too _real_ compared to any other dream Soap had ever had. And if Piero was right, however small that chance would be, then getting home wouldn’t be as simple as waking up. The cosmic error would have to correct itself somehow, and Soap didn’t know where to even begin finding a solution. Getting home would take one hell of a lucky streak, and unfortunately for Soap, his luck had run out in Prague.

With a frustrated grunt, Soap tossed the book aside, ignoring it as it tumbled off the bed and clattered to the floor. He didn’t want to think about _how_ or _why_. He didn’t want to think about impossible time-space anomalies. He was alive, and as long as he was alive, every second he was out of commission was a second wasted.

The metal floor was ice against his bare feet as Soap jumped upright. His legs swayed and his stomach violently protested the sudden movement, and he let out a groan as he collapsed back on the bed, the mattress springs creaking under his weight. He brought his cold hands up to his face, squeezing his eyes shut as his heart pounded in his ears. Piero was supposed to give him another dose of sleep poison by now, to knock him out for the rest of the night, but he had the creeping suspicion that Piero had gotten distracted and fallen asleep downstairs. He had half a mind to crawl down there and demand Piero’s attention, but what he _really_ wanted was a cuppa and a smoke and maybe his journal—

A metallic jingle from outside stopped Soap in his thoughts and he lifted his head toward the sound; it was coming from a door on the far side of the room (where it led, Soap wasn’t sure.) The handle turned, the door was eased open, and a head poked through.

The desk lantern cast a soft glow over Corvo’s face as he peered through the opening, his gaze meeting Soap’s. An impish twinkle entered his eye, and as he stepped further into the room, Soap spied a dark bundle tucked under his arm. Behind him was the night sky.

Soap let out an annoyed sigh and dropped to the bed again.

“Thought no one was supposed to go in or out.”

“Yes, well…” Corvo grinned and held up his free hand; dangling from his fingers and glinting in the lantern light was a brass key. “He can’t be angry if he doesn’t know I’m here, can he?”

“And if you wake Piero up?”

Corvo kicked the door shut behind him. “He won’t tell.”

Soap huffed, unimpressed with Corvo’s confidence. Corvo strode further into the room, tossing the key on top of Piero’s desk as he walked by. He dropped the dark bundle on the bed beside Soap.

“For you.”

Soap looked at him curiously, then rummaged through the bundle. The first thing in the pile was a dark gray shirt, and when he unfolded it, his spare pair of gloves and his pack of cigarettes tumbled onto the bed.

“Figured you’d want those.”

“Thanks,” Soap muttered, and he picked up the pack. “I was just thinking of these, actually.” He set the cigarettes aside and inspected the shirt; it was clean, and judging by its weight and texture, he guessed that it was made of wool. It was long sleeved, and the collar was a bit high, though not quite high enough to be considered a turtleneck.

“Make sure it fits.”

Soap shrugged off Piero’s jacket and slipped on the shirt. It fit comfortably enough.

“What do you think?”

“Fits fine.”

Corvo dragged the chair from beside Piero’s desk and sat, crossing one leg over the other. “I figured Martin was about your size. You think those trousers would fit?”

The trousers were the last garment left in the pile; when Soap unfolded them, he noticed they were about the same size as he pair he was wearing, though a little more fitted.

“Probably. I’ll try them on later.”

Corvo chuckled. “Of course.”

Soap folded up the trousers and set them aside before reaching for his cigarettes. It probably wasn’t safe to smoke while under the effects of sleep poison, but he didn’t care.

“You got a light?”

From his pocket Corvo produced a small box, and from that, a match. He struck it on the side of the box and held it up to the end of Soap’s cigarette.

“Hmph.” Soap brought the cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag. Relief washed over him as smoke filled his lungs, and his eyes fluttered.

“Better?”

 _“Much.”_ Soap slumped against the wall and exhaled a cloud of smoke, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. “Did you ever find a journal with my stuff, by the way?”

Corvo tilted his head. “No,” he answered, “and neither did Piero, I believe. It may still be with your things; if you wish, I can ask the Admiral—”

“No, don’t worry about it.” Soap grabbed the empty soup can and shook ashes into it. “Figures I forgot to check for it when I first woke up. I’m guessing this means the Admiral hasn’t decided to slot me?”

Corvo propped his legs up on the bed and crossed his ankles. “I’ve convinced him of other options,” he said smoothly. “He’ll come to a final decision in the morning, I believe, but for now you’re in no danger.”

“That’s all that matters,” sighed Soap, and he sucked down another lungful of smoke. It caught in his dry throat and he let out a staggering cough, which irritated his still-churning stomach.

“This fuckin’ sleep stuff is killing me,” he grumbled once he’d pulled himself back together.

“Just be thankful the Admiral didn’t decide to chain you to the bed instead.”

“Mm.”

The two of them sat in silence for some time while Soap smoked. He still didn’t have the slightest idea as to what was happening here, but the assurance that he wasn’t going to wake up with a gun to his head—or more appropriately, a sword to his throat—eased some of the weight on his shoulders.

“…Thank you,” Soap said after a long moment, looking Corvo in the eye. “Not many people would stick their neck out for someone they don’t know.”

Corvo’s lips curled in a knowing smile.

“We know each other already, don’t we?”

_Glimpses of curly black hair and the faintest shimmer of eyes in the darkness._

“…I guess we do.”

“I won’t lie to you.” Corvo produced a cigarette from his little box. “I was surprised to see you turn up at the Hound Pits. I knew you were coming, of course, but I wasn’t sure exactly when or where I’d ever find you.” He held the cigarette between his lips and lit a match. “I was out looking for you, actually—I’d just given up and was returning to the pub when, lo and behold: there you were. I suppose luck was on our side.” He paused, then added, “And perhaps I should apologize for attacking you.”

“I had a go at you too,” Soap replied dismissively, “so we’re even.” Corvo watched with a curious expression as Soap studied the remains of his cigarette and took another drag. Then, he continued:

“I suspected you’d arrived when you vanished from my dreams.” Corvo continued after a few moments. “It confused me at first.” He nodded at the nearly spent cigarette between Soap’s fingers and asked, “Finished?”

Soap took one final puff, then dropped the butt in the empty can and set it back on the desk. He pulled Piero’s coat over his shoulders, letting the sleeves hang empty at his sides.

“Is that why you insisted I stay?” Soap asked. “Because of the dreams?”

“Well, I can’t figure out what’s so significant about you if the Admiral kills you for trespassing, now, can I?”

Soap scoffed. “Guess not. So you really believe Piero’s theory?”

“It’s the only logical explanation.”

Soap couldn’t restrain a cynical scoff at that, and Corvo tilted his head.

“What’s so funny?”

“I dunno, mate,” Soap responded archly. “Maybe the fact that there are other logical explanations that don’t involve science fiction?”

Corvo grinned slyly. “Like what?”

“Like the possibility that maybe I slipped into a coma and this is all a dream.”

“Right. And do you have an explanation that would work from our perspective?”

Soap opened his mouth, but no words came out. Corvo’s smile took on a distinctly smug energy.

“It wouldn’t matter,” Soap finally answered. “Because you’re a dream.”

“If that’s what you choose to believe,” Corvo conceded, “then I have no right to change your mind.”

Soap chose to ignore the almost patronizing slant to Corvo’s words, watching in silence as he took a deep drag from his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“In any case,” Corvo continued, “I found Piero’s explanation to be satisfactory. Given the fact that our very first meeting was in the Void, well…” He shrugged. “I suspected the supernatural from the beginning.”

“That’s what you call that place? The Void?”

Corvo raised the cigarette to his lips again. “Well, do you have your own name for it?” When Soap stared blankly, he chuckled.

“I suppose not,” he said, and took another drag.

Soap crossed his arms over his chest and sorted through the questions bouncing around his head—he wasn’t sure where to begin, and he wasn’t sure what Corvo was willing to answer.

“I suspect,” Corvo said, “it will be a long time before we discern the meaning of these dreams. It will be even longer before we unravel the mystery of what brought you here to begin with, so in the meantime, MacTavish, I suggest you get comfortable.”

“Aye,” Soap muttered.

“And in the meantime, _I_ could use some fresh air.” Corvo stood from the chair and tossed his unfinished cigarette in the soup can with Soap’s, then snatched the workshop key off the desk. “Care to join me?”

Silently, Soap watched as Corvo stood up. There was an almost pointed confidence in Corvo as he turned his back on Soap and started for the door—Soap paused for a moment, taken aback by the display of trust, but decided to focus on gathering the strength to stand. He cautiously rose to his feet, taking his time so as not to upset his delicate stomach—his legs swayed, but he was able to get his bearings enough to follow Corvo to the door. Corvo pushed it open, and Soap hissed through his teeth as cold air rushed in and chilled him. He pulled Piero’s jacket tighter over himself and followed Corvo onto the small balcony outside. The cold metal bit into his bare feet.

Corvo leaned against the railing and drew a deep breath, then let it out in a slow sigh. Soap stepped beside him, looking out into the world beyond. A taller structure to their right blocked most of the view from the balcony, and a narrow pillar to their left blocked even more—but from where they stood, Soap could see the sparse twinkle of lights on the far shore of the wide river and the shimmer of moonlight on shallow black waves. Towers of smoke billowed toward the sky and obscured the stars. The night air was heavy, and the smell of the river was thick on the breeze.

“Do you ever get used to the smell?” Soap muttered, leaning his weight against the railing. “Of the river, I mean.”

Corvo raised a brow at him. “Do you not have rivers like this where you live?”

“Of course we do. They just don’t smell nearly as bad.”

Corvo chuckled and turned his gaze back out to the water. “You’ll get used to it eventually.”

Unconvinced, Soap let out a low huff.

They stood quietly together on the balcony for some time as Corvo enjoyed the night air. Soap, on the other hand, scanned the far bank; he could see the silhouettes of buildings stretching across the entire length of the river, black shapes against the dark sky. One structure in particular caught his eye, and it was no wonder that it did; the great stone tower was easily the most illuminated structure on the far bank. A dove gray beacon against the cold night, it was almost reminiscent of a palace, and Soap’s imagination made up for the detail lost at this distance.

“What is that?” Soap asked, and he jutted his chin in the direction of the tower. Corvo clicked his tongue.

“That,” he said, “is Dunwall Tower. The seat of the Empire.”

“Seat of the Empire?” Soap huffed softly. “Must be where the Empress lived.”

“Piero told you about the Empress?”

“He told me that she died.”

A few seconds of silence passed before Corvo murmured, “Of course.”

Soap gave Corvo a sideways glance; he still stared out at river, or perhaps at Dunwall Tower, and in the low light from the workshop Soap could see how tightly he gripped the railing.

“He didn’t tell me what happened,” Soap admitted after a moment.

“He wouldn’t,” Corvo agreed, “because he doesn’t know. No one does.”

Soap raised a brow. “You say that like you do.”

Corvo’s expression was drawn when he turned to face Soap.

“I do,” he said. “Because I was there.”

Curiosity rose in the back of Soap’s mind, but in the end he kept his questions to himself. He watched as Corvo stepped away from the railing.

“You should get some rest, MacTavish. The Admiral will come by early.”

Soap lingered at the railing for a few moments, then turned and allowed Corvo to usher him inside. The hand hovering over his shoulder disappeared as he stepped back into the relative warmth of the workshop.

“I’ll volunteer to come wake you,” said Corvo, “so the Admiral doesn’t question your sudden change in wardrobe. Expect me at dawn.”

“Understood.” Soap shrugged off Piero’s jacket and draped it over his arm as he walked further into the room—but a realization entered his mind and he halted in place. He’d spent this entire time with Corvo, and yet something hadn’t occurred to him until just now. He turned on his heel and asked:

“Hey, how did you even—”

He stopped.

Cold air seeped into the room through the door, which had been left ajar. The balcony was empty, and the air still carried the smell of cigarettes and the stench of the river that rode on the breeze. Confusion washed over Soap and his shoulders sagged in defeat as he realized Corvo was gone.

“…Get up here?”

* * *

Corvo returned early in the morning, bringing with him a vial of blue liquid and some cheap beer with which to wash it down. He sat with Soap for a while in silence, the ghost of amusement crossing his face as he watched him choke down the blue liquid. _‘Protection against the plague,’_ had been his explanation when Soap demanded to know what the hell he’d been given, and Soap didn’t press any further.

Once Soap chased down the liquid with watered-down beer, Corvo led him downstairs. Workbenches littered with scraps of metal and open journals lined the walls of the workshop, and a massive drill-press loomed in the center of the room. Empty bottles and tin cans cluttered the floor near one of the workbenches, and an oil-stained towel hung off the backrest of a rickety wooden chair.

Cold sunlight spilled into the workshop through the open garage door, and inside the workshop stood three men: the Admiral himself, in the center; Piero, who muttered something to his disinterested commander; and a third stranger, a weaselly man who nursed a silver flask and rubbed at his eyes. Havelock signaled for Piero to silence himself as Soap and Corvo approached.

“MacTavish,” he said. “Sleep well?”

Soap felt Corvo’s gaze on the back of his head. “Well enough.”

“I suspect you have questions.”

“Plenty.”

Something in the Admiral’s face relaxed, but only just, and he extended a hand toward Soap. Soap took it, and the Admiral’s grip was almost a little too tight as he gave a firm shake.

“I should introduce myself properly. Admiral Havelock.”

“Captain MacTavish.”

Havelock nodded curtly.

“Welcome to the Hound Pits.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Hope this week has been treating y'all well!
> 
> First order of business! I actually have a question for y'all, since this has been bugging me for a week now. I've been considering shifting some things around so that the chapter count on AO3 is more in line with the chapter count that I actually have in my outline and word document—here, the prologue is counted as a proper first chapter, but in my personal documents it's listed and treated as a sort of Chapter 0. Obviously AO3 doesn't have a proper prologue function, so as of right now there are only three solutions.
> 
> The first option would be to remove the prologue from this work, and list it as its own work and the first piece in the Call of Honor series. This would brute-force the chapter count into its correct order, but the downside is that the prologue introduces an important plot element and it may be confusing to anyone who doesn't realize it's a separate work.
> 
> The second option would be to change the work skin. This can be done by fiddling a little bit with HTML to hide the chapter headers in the body of the work, so that I can put in my own chapter headers. This way the prologue will remain in the main body of the work, and the body of the work will have "proper" chapter headers more accurate to what I actually have in my document. The dropdown chapter selection menu cannot be changed and will reflect the "incorrect" chapter count, but since the chapters have their own titles, hopefully it won't be too confusing to navigate from chapter to chapter. This will mean readers will probably have to read chapter-by-chapter, but given how long this fic is going to be, that might end up being the case anyway. Work skins can be hidden under the display section of account preferences, so if a reader chooses not to see my custom chapter headers, they don't have to!
> 
> The third option would be just to leave it the way it is. I understand a change like the ones I'm suggesting could be confusing to my readers, and if that's the case, I'd rather retain ease of access! Listing the prologue as Chapter 0 is of no real consequence and is really just a minor nitpick to me.
> 
> Please feel free to leave your opinion in the comments! If you'd prefer not to comment, [I also made a strawpoll where you can vote!](https://www.strawpoll.me/20656619) I'll be keeping track of votes and comments until next Thursday, which is when I'll make my decision. Any changes I make will go into effect that Friday, before I post the next chapter.
> 
>  **HUGE thanks to my beta readers (solnishka, atramento, and my dear partner) for their help with this chapter,** and huge thanks to my readers for taking the time to read and support this fic! If all goes well, I'll be back next week with a new chapter. Have a nice weekend!


	6. The Coterie and the Void

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning:** Needles

The bathtub was far too small.

Soap sank into the warm water, flinging droplets across the room as he kicked his legs over the edge of the tub. Face half-submerged, he blew bubbles through his nose and drummed his fingers against the side of the wooden basin. He closed his eyes as the steady ache in his joints ebbed away in the water.

He hadn’t slept well in the slightest. Soap had never gotten that final dose of sleep poison, so the previous night had been spent pacing around the workshop’s upper floor and skimming through science books under lantern light, his activity interspersed with pitifully small pockets of restless sleep. Corvo’s confidence that the Admiral wouldn’t slot him come daybreak had proven to be of little consolation; the strangeness of this whole ordeal and the dread of what was to come had robbed Soap of any peace. It was a relief to finally be out of the workshop.

Soap tilted his head back, wetting his mohawk, and sucked in a deep breath.

He wondered if he shouldn’t count his blessings; after all, he had a warm bath, fresh clothes were draped over the edge of the sink basin for him, and he waited on what he hoped would be a hot breakfast. There was even the chance he’d have a proper bed to sleep in come nightfall. All in all, it was more than he had when he first woke up in that alley.

But none of this meant Soap was out of the woods.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

Even beyond the confines of Piero’s workshop, Soap was still a prisoner. He was completely at the mercy of his hosts, and if the good Admiral’s hospitality ran out, it wouldn’t take much for Soap to end this dream floating downriver. His safety here depended on how well he fulfilled Havelock’s expectations—problem was, he wasn’t sure what was expected of him.

The thought of Piero’s theory snuck into his mind. With an annoyed grunt, Soap dug his fingers into the side of the tub and tucked his legs into the water. He pulled himself upright, and as water trickled from his hair and down his face into his beard, he tried to force Piero’s theory out of his mind and instead focused on when he’d be able to shave next.

Instead, as his eyes wandered and found the yellow bruises mottling his warm brown arms, Prague elbowed itself into his thoughts. Soap had stumbled into a mess, but at the end of the day, it wasn’t _his_ mess. He needed to be home—no, he needed to be _awake_ at Price’s side, planning their next move before Makarov could get too far ahead again. Their failure to kill the bastard had cost them dearly—it had cost them Kamarov, it had nearly cost them their own lives…

Soap ground his teeth as Yuri crossed his mind. He still had no idea what to make of Makarov’s ominous statement; when he woke up, he expected one hell of an explanation.

A knock on the door broke Soap’s train of thought.

“Mr. MacTavish!” called a male voice from the other side. It belonged to neither Havelock nor Corvo; it was gravelly and carried the hint of an accent that sounded a little more English than the others here, but only just. “Breakfast is ready, sir.”

“I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Do hurry, the Admiral and Master Corvo are waiting downstairs!”

_“Aye!”_

Footsteps trailed away from the door.

Soap dipped his head in the water one last time and blew frustrated bubbles, then stood. Goosebumps rose along his skin as he made contact with the cool air, and with a shudder he stepped out and grabbed the towel laid out for him. He rushed to dry off and dress in the clothes Corvo had provided the night before.

The Admiral and Corvo were, indeed, waiting for Soap when he finally made his way downstairs, rubbing his damp curls with the towel draped over his shoulders. The taproom took up a majority of the first floor, with a long bar wrapping around the interior and booths lining the exterior walls. Corvo waved him over from one of these booths, and across from him sat Havelock, who held a cigar in one hand.

Soap crossed the room and nodded a silent greeting as he took a seat beside Corvo. Almost as soon as he sat, Wallace emerged from a hallway on the far end of the taproom—he was likely coming from the kitchen, judging by the plate balanced in his hand. He crossed the room quickly and set the plate down in front of Soap; on it were chunks of fried meat, which sat upon a slice of darkened toast, all swimming in the same sauce Soap’s dinner had come in the previous night. Pear slices were arranged in a neat row on the side of the plate, and Wallace placed a fork on the table beside Soap’s hand.

“I will return with some tea,” he said, and he was off before Soap could utter a response.

“Feel better after a hot bath?” Corvo asked once Wallace had gone.

“Much,” Soap replied, and he speared a piece of meat with his fork and popped it into his mouth—it was whale meat, if the almost-beefy, distinctly fishy flavor was anything to go by. It was an odd flavor Soap still hadn’t gotten used to, and part of him eagerly anticipated the tea Wallace had spoken of.

“Right,” said the Admiral, and he tapped his cigar against the rim of a glass ashtray. “Straight to the point. I’m here to let you know of my expectations.”

Soap met Havelock’s unwavering gaze. His weathered face was set into a stern frown, and Soap wondered if the Admiral wasn’t just a dour personality.

“Firstly,” he began, “ground rules. We don’t have many, but they’re important. First, avoid giving away our presence here—that means keep the lights low and don’t make more noise than you need to. Don’t carry lamps outside, and Outsider’s eyes, don’t burn anything—we’ve got whale oil to keep the heat on. I trust you know how to maintain a low profile?”

Soap was careful to keep a neutral expression, but inwardly, his interest—along with a lingering sense of alarm—piqued as the Admiral spoke. From his aggressive response toward Soap’s arrival and the lockdown that followed, it was clear before that he was running a secretive organization; the fact that most of his rules related to staying hidden made it even clearer. Part of him wondered if the rest of Havelock’s rules would be along the same vein, though he decided to keep his questions to himself until the end.

“Of course,” he responded.

Wallace once again emerged from the next room, this time carrying a small teapot and a smaller ceramic cup. Havelock went quiet with Wallace’s approach, taking the opportunity to sit back in his seat and puff on his cigar as Wallace set the teacup down on the table.

“My apologies if this isn’t to your liking,” he said as he poured the tea for Soap. “Due to the blockade, we haven’t been able to acquire any of the higher-quality imports.”

“That’s not a problem,” Soap replied, and once Wallace had finished pouring, he took a sip of tea. It was straight black, and he couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose at how bitter it was—he was no stranger to strong teas, in fact he preferred them, but he at least liked to take it with milk and some sugar.

“We’re out of milk, I’m afraid,” said Wallace, anticipating the question on Soap’s lips. “But we may have some sugar, if you’d like—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Soap said dismissively, and he set the tea aside. He looked up at Wallace, and with a brief, tight-lipped smile he added, “thanks for the tea.”

Wallace gave him a puzzled look before nodding and setting the teapot down on the table. As he departed, Havelock took another puff on his cigar and tapped ashes into his ashtray.

“Right,” Havelock said. The seat creaked under his weight as he leaned forward, propping his elbows against the table.

“Second,” he continued, pointing his cigar toward Soap, “you will not leave this pub without Corvo chaperoning you. If I find you’ve disappeared, I _will_ send him after you.” He arched a gray brow. “Understood?”

The implications of that statement weren’t lost on Soap. With his face still schooled into careful stillness, he dipped his head.

“Understood.”

“And third,” Havelock added, “if by some miracle of the Void you come across another soul outside our coalition, or are somehow captured, you will not breathe a word of what you’ve seen and heard here. Am I clear?”

“As crystal,” Soap responded. So far, Havelock’s expectations were straightforward—and telling. Something illicit was happening here, and Havelock’s emphasis on secrecy hinted at the gravity of what was at stake. The fact that this operation seemed to be strictly civilian hadn’t escaped Soap, either; whatever he’d stumbled into, it wasn’t government business which required some bending of the law. He had a sneaking suspicion it involved the death of their Empress, but so far, that was where Soap’s clues ended.

“Furthermore,” said Havelock, gesturing toward himself with his cigar, “your weapons and equipment are with me. I’ll be sending your equipment back to Piero for study, but your weapons will remain under my watch until further notice.”

Soap ate some more whale and washed it down with a sip of tea. He considered asking after his journal, but decided against it; better to wait and look for it himself than tell the Admiral and risk him going through its contents. His personal history wasn’t relevant to what was at hand, and if Havelock was maintaining secrecy, then Soap intended to retain some of his own—assuming, of course, Havelock hadn’t discovered it already. 

“And my clothes, sir?”

Havelock sighed. “I’ve passed them along to Lydia to see if she can salvage anything,” he answered. “I doubt it, to tell you the truth, but it’ll be less of a strain on our finances if we can save anything. In the meantime, if you need something, just ask. One of us will probably have whatever you need.”

With a low hum, Soap forked another piece of whale meat into his mouth. 

“I expect Corvo will show you around. My quarters and Lord Pendleton’s quarters are off limits without invitation—barring that, you’re free to roam the pub as you please.”

“Right,” Soap said, and twirled his fork between his fingers. “And this Lord Pendleton…?”

“You saw him with me this morning. Wallace, who just served you, is his manservant—if you need something, he or Lydia can help you.” Havelock gave Corvo a pointed look. “And you, I’m putting in charge of sleeping arrangements. He can’t stay with Piero forever.”

“Understood, sir,” Corvo answered.

“Right.” Havelock leaned back into his seat and tapped his cigar against the rim of the ashtray again.

“Now,” he continued, “this isn’t a charity I’m running. If you’re going to stay here, I have certain expectations.”

“Naturally,” Soap responded archly, and he took another sip of tea.

“If what Piero believes is true,” Havelock explained, “you’re from a world where the technology at your disposal has advanced far beyond what we thought possible. Suffice to say, the kind of technological knowledge you have would be more than beneficial to our organization, and to the future of the Empire.”

Soap’s cool veneer slipped into an alarmed frown as he realized what Havelock was suggesting, and he gulped down his tea in his rush to respond.

“Sir,” he said quickly, “with all due respect, I’m hardly a scientist or an engineer—"

“And you don’t need to be,” assured Havelock. “Just tell Piero what you do know, and I’m certain he’ll figure out the rest.”

Uneasiness rolled over Soap—he didn’t know these people or what their goals were, and he wasn’t in the business of handing over information when he had no way of knowing how that might be used. He drank more tea.

“As long as you cooperate,” Havelock continued, “we’ll look out for you—feed you, house you, provide you with whatever you need, within reason. Trade us your knowledge”—he made a sweeping gesture with his cigar—“and I’ll let you stay with us. Is that a fair deal?”

Soap exchanged one more look with Corvo, easing his face into an expression he hoped would hint at his creeping apprehension—the nod he received in response was meant to be reassuring, he guessed, but it did nothing to assuage his discomfort. What would ease some of his worry would ultimately have to be the truth, so he turned back to the Admiral.

“Before I answer,” he said slowly, “I have a question.”

Havelock nodded once.

“Ask away.”

Soap pushed his plate away and leaned forward, folding his hands over the table. He looked the Admiral in the eye.

“What exactly have I gotten myself into?” he asked.

Havelock drummed his fingers against the table with his free hand and brought his cigar to his lips. He took another puff. Exhaled slowly.

“What do you know so far?”

“The head of state is dead and you’re running something illegal.”

“That’s all you need to know.”

Frustration bit at Soap and he couldn’t stop his face from slipping into another frown.

“Sir,” he said, careful to keep his voice steady, “if I’m going to be staying with you and helping your cause by feeding you information, then with all due respect I think I deserve some transparency.”

Havelock arched a brow and his lip quirked upward in irritation.

“Frankly, MacTavish,” he countered, “what happens here is none of your concern. What I should do is keep you under lockdown in the old hound pits—I’m offering you more freedom at risk to myself and my people here because I believe it would be more beneficial to both of us, but in that case, I would require your _cooperation._ Is that clear?”

Soap scoffed. “You could always just let me go,” he remarked dryly.

Havelock’s slight, bitter smile was devoid of any warmth. “You know I can’t do that.”

Soap narrowed his eyes slightly, not breaking eye contact with the Admiral. He did, in fact, realize that walking out of here wasn’t an option—and it was clear Havelock wasn’t about to break his silence on what was happening here, so if Soap wanted to accept his terms, he would have to do so knowing that he’d be handing over information to aid a cause he had no personal stake in and no knowledge of its intentions. He wasn’t one to stick his neck where it didn’t belong—or rather, stick it out for people he had no other ties to, in this case—but it seemed he hadn’t much of a choice.

“So,” Havelock pressed, his voice dropping low, “what’s your decision?”

“Sounds like I haven’t got much of a choice,” Soap responded, unable to help his bitterness from edging into his voice. He hesitated a few moments, then let out a low sigh.

“You have a deal,” he relented.

Havelock’s lips pressed into a tight line. Soap almost didn’t want to blame him for his distrust—who knew what he and Price would do in his position—but he couldn’t deny his apprehension at their deal, and the way the Admiral narrowed his eyes at him did little but fuel the anxiety curling in his gut. After a few moments, Havelock crushed his cigar into the ashtray and stood.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said, and then he left them without ceremony, leaving his cigar smoldering in a bed of ashes. Letting out a long breath, Soap slumped back against the seat and tilted his head toward the ceiling. Corvo picked a slice of pear from his plate.

“He’s a little less intimidating once you get to know him,” Corvo said, pushing Soap’s plate back toward him. When Soap gave him an incredulous look, Corvo shrugged and insisted, “Give him time to trust you.”

“Right,” Soap muttered, and he grabbed his fork and poked at his breakfast. He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more; Havelock’s persistent suspicion toward him, or the uneasy deal the two of them had struck. Truth be told, Soap wasn’t quite sure where to even begin holding up his end of the bargain, and part of him wondered if it even mattered in the end; as far as he knew, he’d wake up at any given moment and leave this dream behind. In the meantime, though, his safety depended on how well he fulfilled Havelock’s expectations.

The smell of cigar smoke hung heavy in the air.

Soap ate in silence, and once he finished, Corvo gave him a brisk tour of the Hound Pits. Soap was shown the kitchen, where he deposited his empty dishes—earning another odd look from Wallace—and the brewery, through which they went upstairs to the servant’s quarters. On the second floor, Corvo pointed out the rooms belonging to the Admiral and to Lord Pendleton. Then they went upstairs, skipping the bricked-off third floor on their way to the attic.

The attic was where Corvo stayed, and from now on, he would share that space with Soap. Corvo’s modest setup—a bed, some chairs, and an old desk where he kept his things—took up only a small portion of the ample space. The thick, opaque windows lining the north and east walls were in desperate need of cleaning, and thus only some of the late morning light filtered its way into the sprawling room. A lantern atop an aged bedside table cast a warm yellow glow over the dreary atmosphere.

A mattress, a pillow, and a pair of thin blankets awaited Soap on the floor beside Corvo’s bed. It was a downgrade from the bed in Piero’s workshop, but Soap couldn’t find it in himself to complain; he’d slept in worse places, and it was better than sleeping on the bare floor. He was given the opportunity for a late morning nap, and when he settled down it didn’t take long for his exhaustion to catch up with him.

It was mid-afternoon when Soap woke again. Corvo was perched on his bed, skimming through a book and sipping wine he’d nabbed from the taproom while Soap had been asleep. Soap dipped in and out of sleep again, lulled by the wispy sound of turning pages and the creaks and groans of the old pub as she settled.

When Soap managed to keep his eyes open long enough to listen, Corvo fed him bits of information. He offered a brief explanation the Empire and the four major Isles which composed her—Gristol, Tyvia, Serkonos, and Morley. He repeated Piero’s explanation of the plague and the blockade which cut Dunwall off from the rest of the Isles by way of sea. The information was piecemeal and being that it was all he could do to stay awake, Soap couldn’t commit all of it to memory; he made a mental note to ask more questions later.

The light coming through the murky windows was ruddy orange when Lydia came up to the attic. She was a little brown-haired woman, with a toothy smile and a handshake almost as strong as the Admiral’s, and she brought Soap and Corvo down to the bar where they were both presented with bowls of stew.

“You lucked out tonight,” Lydia said. “We were able to get some vegetables brought in, and Wallace wanted to use them before they turned.” She then leaned closer to the two of them and added, “Just between us, I think he just wanted to pull out the best rations we had”—she winked—“for our new guest. I had to get him to cut back a little so that _Himself_ doesn’t give him a lashing for wasting resources.”

It wasn’t hard to guess who she’d meant by _Himself_ , and Soap had half a mind to ask whether she meant a lashing by tongue or whip—but the Admiral himself was sitting at the bar nearby, nursing a glass of whiskey and his own bowl of stew, so Soap kept his comments to himself.

“He did pull out the best,” Corvo remarked under his breath after they’d picked a booth to sit in. Sliced onion and bits of something green floated in the broth alongside chunks of meat, which Soap suspected to be whale. With a shake of his head, Corvo tucked in without another word.

Soap scooped up a hearty spoonful of meat and vegetables and brought it to his lips. He was right about the meat being whale—he had a sneaking suspicion it was the most readily-available ration. He dimly wondered if he wouldn’t get tired of it, but in the end, he wasn’t about to get picky—food was food, after all, and the hearty, salty stew was _good._ It seemed Wallace had a talent for making the most out of their rations.

Piero briefly appeared while they ate to grab some food, then promptly retreated to his workshop. A new person appeared as well—a mousey little woman who Soap only spotted because he’d looked up in time to see her edge out of the stairwell, casting a nervous glance in his direction. She vanished when they made eye contact, and Lydia clicked her tongue and shook her head. Wallace emerged from the kitchen at one point to pour some strong black tea for Soap and Corvo, this time bringing out some sugar with which to temper the bitterness.

Corvo and Soap ate in silence, and outside the occasional murmured conversation between Lydia and Havelock as she wiped down the counters, comfortable quiet settled over the bar. As the sky darkened outside, the lights inside were dimmed, and the gentle hum and soothing heat of a whale oil stove lent to a cozy atmosphere inside the pub.

The creak of poorly oiled hinges broke that cozy atmosphere, and Soap looked up to see a man he hadn’t met before stride in through the street-facing door. Straightening his muted blue jacket as he walked, the newcomer stood tall and crossed the room with the confidence of a man who was welcome—and if the way Havelock looked up at him and arched a brow was of any indication, it was clear he wasn’t _un_ welcome.

“I sent for you hours ago,” Havelock said bluntly.

The newcomer laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

“You know I’ve got my own responsibilities, Farley,” he responded smoothly, and Havelock rolled his eyes and continued eating. The newcomer leaned over his shoulder. “Stew tonight?”

“Go bother Wallace if you want some.”

“Of course, of course. But first thing’s first—”

“—You looking for our _guest?_ You just passed him.” Havelock jerked his thumb in the direction of Soap and Corvo’s booth, and the newcomer turned to face them. Soap looked down at his half-eaten stew in an attempt to look as though he hadn’t been staring, and Corvo sighed softly and lifted his bowl to slurp at his broth.

The newcomer gave Havelock a sideways glance.

“Care to introduce us?”

“I’m _eating.”_

With a chuckle, the newcomer patted the Admiral’s shoulder once more before sauntering in Soap’s direction. Soap swallowed what was in his mouth and started to stand, but the stranger waved his hand dismissively.

“Oh, sit down,” he said, “no need for formalities.” He extended a gloved hand, and Soap took it, his fingers sliding against smooth leather. This close, Soap got a better look at his uniform; he couldn’t guess what sort of faction he could belong to, until he spied what looked suspiciously similar to a clerical collar around his neck.

“I see my clothes suit you well,” the stranger continued, and he offered a lopsided smile as he shook Soap’s hand. “Overseer Martin.”

“Captain MacTavish.”

Martin’s brows went up and a hint of excitement lit up in his eyes.

“MacTavish?” he asked. _“A bheil Mòdhlig agaibh?” 1_

Soap stared blankly at Martin, taken off guard by how easily Scots Gaelic had slid off his tongue—his accent had been so similar to everyone else’s that he hadn’t expected it, and it took Soap an embarrassingly long time to recover.

 _“Glè bheag 2_, not as much as I should,” Soap finally said, and he cracked a small, sheepish grin. “Don’t speak it much in my family.”

Martin blinked. “Is that so?” he asked. “Shame. I suppose it was worth a shot.” He released Soap’s hand. “I apologize for not coming by sooner. This one”—he jabbed his thumb in Havelock’s direction—“complained my ear off about you last night.”

Soap stifled a sigh. “Did he, now?”

“Indeed he has,” Martin responded wryly, and he placed his hands on his hips as he looked between Soap and Corvo. “I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

“Not at all,” Corvo muttered from the rim of his bowl, but his cold tone carried a passive-aggressive edge. Soap gave him a look, but Corvo didn’t meet it; his were averted, and his shoulders were stiff as he hunched over his bowl.

Martin seemed to notice Corvo’s discomfort as well, and he offered another easy smile. “I won’t be too long,” he assured, and he turned his gaze on Soap again. “I’m surprised, you don’t speak Mòdhlig? You’ve got such a strong accent.”

Heat prickled along Soap’s ears. “Aye, well, it’s complicated,” he responded, and he shrugged. “It’s not spoken as much anymore. I can’t remember a time I carried a full conversation in Gàidhlig.”

“That’s what you call it?” A thoughtful look crossed Martin’s face and he rocked on his feet. “Interesting. I was told you were an odd one.”

“Weren’t you hungry, Martin?” Corvo interjected. “I’m sure Wallace still has plenty of stew left over.” He punctuated his interruption by loudly slurping his broth. Martin’s brows came together in a slight frown and he opened his mouth to respond, but Wallace emerged from the kitchen again before he could speak.

“Brother Martin!” Wallace called out, his eyes widening slightly. “Have you eaten yet tonight? You’re just in time for supper.”

Martin twisted around to look at Wallace over his shoulder. “Not yet,” he answered. “Would you be so kind as to fix me a bowl?”

“Of course, sir,” Wallace said, and he disappeared once again. With a low sigh, Martin folded his arms over his chest and turned back to Soap and Corvo.

“I’ll let you get back to it, then,” he said, and he angled his head toward Soap. “We’ll speak later, hm?”

Soap nodded. “Aye.”

Martin offered one last friendly smile, this one significantly subdued compared to the last, and turned on his heel. Corvo’s shoulders sagged as he departed, and his strained expression relaxed into a tired one as he finally set his bowl down.

Soap drummed his fingers against the table, distantly aware of Martin entering a conversation with Havelock on the other side of the room as he worried his lip and watched Corvo scrape the last morsels from the bottom of his bowl. He wanted to ask what had happened, but decided against prying; instead, he hunched over his own bowl.

“That timing was perfect,” Soap remarked under his breath, and he looked up to raise an inquisitive brow at Corvo. “Did you hear him coming or something?”

Corvo didn’t look up, but one corner of his lip tugged slightly upward.

“You could say that.”

The two men finished their food without ceremony and returned upstairs. Corvo stopped at the pub’s only bathroom and sent Soap to the attic by himself, offering him a chance to undress in privacy. Once upstairs, he stripped down to his trousers, which he then switched out for the old gray pair Piero had given him. He settled down onto his mattress and began folding his clothes just as Corvo returned from the bathroom, and politely averted his gaze as Corvo stripped down to his drawers and left his clothes in a pile at the foot of his bed. He didn’t look up again until he heard the mattress creak under Corvo’s weight.

Finished with his folding, Soap wrapped himself in one of his blankets and watched Corvo as he dug around for—and found—something tucked under his pillow. Metal glinted in the yellow glow of his bedside lantern.

“What’s that?” Soap asked.

Corvo pulled his blanket over his lap.

“Sleep poison,” he answered, and he felt up and down his arm with two fingers while clutching the object in his free hand. The shape of a needle cut through the dim light.

Soap pursed his lips as he watched Corvo continue to search for a vein. A satisfied noise escaped Corvo, hinting his success, and he clenched his left hand into a tight fist as he poised the syringe over his arm. Green liquid sloshed inside the tube.

“That can’t be safe.”

“Piero concocted it himself. It’s like what he used on you, but slower-acting.” Corvo hissed through his teeth as he sank the needle into his arm, one thumb pressed firmly against the end of the syringe. _“Perfectly_ safe.”

Soap averted his gaze. Suddenly, fluffing his pillow was of great interest.

“…You have trouble sleeping?” he asked after a moment.

Corvo sighed, and Soap looked up in time to see him toss the empty syringe beside his lantern on the table. He wrapped himself in his blanket and fell on his side, locks of curly black hair tumbling in front of his face. He looked Soap in the eye.

“You could say that.”

Soap didn’t press him further, instead choosing to fall back onto his own mattress. He stared up at the ceiling and listened to the soft whistle of wind and Corvo’s steady, languid breathing. In the low lanternlight, he counted the dust particles floating through the air. The sweet smell of wine lingered from that afternoon, and the stew in his belly instilled a pleasant warmth that combated the cold draft.

“Oi…”

Corvo hummed.

“What was your problem earlier?” Soap looked in Corvo’s direction; he couldn’t see much of him from this angle, but it was safe to assume he hadn’t moved from his earlier position. “With Martin.”

“What do you mean?” Corvo asked.

“You don’t like him.”

A pause.

“He’s an honorable man,” Corvo answered carefully, “and a fine strategist, with a brilliant mind. I owe him much.”

“That’s nice,” Soap said archly. “Didn’t answer my question.”

“…Not particularly.”

“Feel like elaborating?”

For a long moment, he received no response. Then, clutching his blankets around himself, Corvo hauled himself upright and narrowed his eyes at the far wall.

“We don’t always see eye-to-eye,” he replied. “That’s the short answer.”

“That stuff is slow-acting, yeah? You got time for the long answer?”

Corvo groaned and tossed his head back, staring at the ceiling.

“I was being truthful when I said Martin is an honorable man,” Corvo admitted after a long moment. “I don’t dislike him personally, I just…don’t share his views. Religious differences—I’m sure you understand.”

Soap propped himself up on his elbows, arching a brow up at Corvo. He recalled the collar around Martin’s neck, and the way Wallace had addressed him.

“I see,” he murmured. “Is he some kind of priest?”

Corvo let out a short sigh. “Ah…of sorts, yes, though not in the traditional sense.” He picked at the stubble on his jaw. “He is a Warfare Overseer, belonging to the Abbey of the Everyman. He and other Overseers are trained to teach and enforce the Abbey’s doctrine.” He gave Soap a side-eyed glanced and added, “They believe it’s their duty to spread their litany and rid the world of heresy, through any means.”

Soap frowned. “So, a militant order,” he said.

“Mainly,” Corvo replied, “though I understand they have different sects. The Abbey is the dominant religion across the Isles, and as such it’s their belief system which is most common.” Corvo rolled his head to one side, looking Soap directly in the eye. A thoughtful look crossed his face.

“Are you a spiritual man, MacTavish?”

“No,” Soap said quickly. He paused for a moment, considering his knee-jerk response, then with a defeated sigh he added, “Maybe. It’s complicated.”

“What isn’t?” With another sigh, longer this time, Corvo splayed out his legs in front of himself and rocked back onto his hands, letting his blanket fall onto his lap. He blinked blearily up at the ceiling—the sleep aid was starting to take effect, Soap guessed.

“You wanna go lights out?”

“No, no,” Corvo responded. “I can stay up a little longer.” A drawn-out yawn immediately followed that statement, and Soap couldn’t help but grin.

“You sure?”

The dry huff Corvo let out in response was only half-amused.

“Where was I…”

Soap sat up straighter, bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs. “What specifically do you disagree with?” he questioned. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

Corvo scoffed. “It would be easier to share what I _do_ agree with,” he said dryly, but after a short pause he continued: “I don’t exactly see eye-to-eye with the Abbey on their spiritual teachings. Their view of the world and of the unknown is bleak and, so to say, accounts for only one side of the coin. Some people have found comfort in their guidance—I am not one of them.” The corner of Corvo’s lip twitched upward in an expression that wasn’t quite a smile as he said, “The Abbey’s brand of fatalism has always seemed…artificial, to me.”

Soap hummed under his breath, furrowing his brow as he turned Corvo’s words over in his head.

“You mind giving an example?”

Corvo clicked his tongue at the ceiling, his face settling into a frown as though he were deep in thought. A few moments passed before he answered.

“Their view of the Void is one I don’t wholly agree with,” he said slowly. “As the Abbey dictates, the Void is a dark, desolate place beyond the veil, and it threatens to swallow us whole. It is the Void from where all evil comes, and thus it is the Void—and he who walks it—from which we must protect ourselves.”

Soap drew a deep breath. An unpleasant tingle settled in the base of his spine as memories of his dreams in the Void flickered in, and he drummed his fingers against the side of his leg. He still didn’t understand what that place was, and truth be told he wasn’t sure if he wanted to; the more he thought of it, the more unsettled he became.

“Are you sure they don’t have a point?” Soap murmured, and Corvo raised an inquisitive brow at him. “Being there—dreaming of it, I mean—it’s almost…”

“Frightening?” Corvo finished for him. Soap’s frown deepened, but before he could think of anything to say, Corvo nodded in understanding.

“I can’t deny the Void is an unsettling place to be,” Corvo said softly. “But ask yourself honestly—are you frightened because you sense malice, or because you’re overwhelmed?” He tilted his head to one side, his brows angling upward. “Think on it.”

Soap let out a slow breath and looked away from Corvo, resting his chin on his knees and looking straight out at the windows. The black night loomed outside.

“As I said,” Corvo continued, “the Abbey’s view only accounts for one side of the coin. The Void is neither good nor evil—it simply is.”

Soap raised a brow at the wall and huffed.

“You sound very confident in that.”

A short pause.

“…You could say that.”

“It seems like you’ve got it all figured out.”

There was another pause, longer this time, and Soap turned his head to give Corvo an expectant look. Corvo wasn’t looking at him; he stared at the far wall, his brows furrowed in a thoughtful expression, and Soap spied his lower lip twitch—a telltale sign of lip-biting. Soap spread his legs out in front of himself and leaned his weight forward, waiting for Corvo’s response.

“You could say I’m more familiar with the Void than most,” Corvo said finally. “Though if I said that to anyone else, I’d be labeled a heretic.”

Soap dipped his head. “The Abbey wouldn’t take kindly to that?” he asked.

“They would not,” Corvo confirmed, and a wry grin flashed across his lips as he added, “They’d drag me off under suspicion for witchcraft, I believe.”

“Witchcraft?” Soap scoffed. “Lovely.”

“Do you believe in witchcraft, MacTavish?”

A short, low laugh escaped Soap at that. “Hardly,” he answered. “I don’t believe in anything I can’t see and touch.”

Corvo fixed him with a curious look.

“I suppose that’s fair,” he said after a long moment. “I’ve noticed military types such as yourself and the Admiral tend to be rather secular.”

Soap hummed softly in response, and with that Corvo yawned and fell back on the bed again, the mattress squeaking under his weight as he flopped out. Taking that as a sign the conversation was over, Soap settled down into his own mattress and pulled his blanket over himself.

The glow of the lantern cast dancing shadows on the ceiling high over Soap’s head, and for a while Soap studied those shadows as he listened to the sound of Corvo’s languid breathing. The soft wind outside blended with the odd creaks and groans of the old pub. With a soft sigh, Soap glanced toward Corvo. All he could see of the man was his left arm dangling off the side of the bed, and in the dim yellow light, Soap spied a black tattoo on the back of Corvo’s dark brown hand.

* * *

A soft sigh escaped Piero as he pushed his journal aside, scattering loose papers and inadvertently knocking over an empty bottle on his desk. He took off his spectacles and set them down on a pile of books before hunching over and rubbing his eyes, his brows coming together in a tight frown.

He’d only been able to scrounge up some of his old notes—most of his studies from his days at the Academy were lost, and the greater part of his salvaged collection was at his flat, which he obviously could not reach at this moment in time. He’d hoped what he did have on him just might have something relevant to his needs, but alas, he had nothing; he would have to ask Samuel to take him back to his old flat in the morning, but Piero’s hope that he’d be able to find anything of value was dwindling.

In all his years of natural philosophy, Piero Joplin had never encountered a single mystery quite like MacTavish.

Piero ran his hands through his thinning hair and shook his head. He’d known from the beginning something wasn’t quite right about that man—everything about him, from his unusual clothing and equipment, his lack of injury despite evidence to the contrary, to his odd mannerisms and speech, perplexed Piero. The easiest conclusion would have been that MacTavish was simply deluded or ill, but that failed to explain all of his oddities, and it had taken Piero some time to put together an explanation as to the nature of his mysterious stranger in their midst. It was the only answer that made sense in the face of all the evidence presented to him.

A traveler from beyond the Void, pulled from his reality into the next through the veil of space and time. The implications of such a feat sent Piero’s head spinning with the possibilities, all frightening and exciting and tantalizingly real. And he was certain of it—all he lacked was the explanation as to _how._

“Piero.”

The Admiral’s voice behind him sent a jolt through Piero and he hastily grabbed his glasses. Perching them on his nose, he spun around in his chair.

At the top of the stairs stood Havelock, one hand on the railing as he quietly surveyed Piero’s quarters. It was as though a whirlwind had passed through; papers and empty food containers littered his desk and the floor around it, and he’d left his clothes strewn about his bed from when he’d been digging through his trunk in search of his old notes. Havelock’s nose wrinkled in distaste as he stepped further in the room.

“You _live_ like this?”

“Only when I’m working,” Piero responded, and _‘which is always’_ hung from the tip of his tongue, unsaid. Havelock’s unchanged expression hinted that he wasn’t impressed by that answer, and Piero sighed and turned back around to gather his notes. “I suspect you’re here to discuss—”

“—MacTavish, yes.” Heavy footsteps crossed the room and Piero winced at the creak of the springs as Havelock settled on a clear spot on his bed. With a sigh, the Admiral leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his hands steepled over his nose.

“Do you still doubt me, sir?”

Havelock fixed him with an incredulous look.

“What sane person _wouldn’t?”_ he challenged. “You realize what you’re expecting me to believe?”

Piero frowned down at his notes, drumming his fingers against the desk. Havelock’s apprehension was only fair; Piero was more than aware of the otherworldly nature of his theory, so much so that he had been pleasantly surprised when Corvo had shown his support. Though in all fairness, Corvo always seemed a little odd, while the Admiral was far more pragmatic. Regardless, Piero would not have suggested his theory if he didn’t believe it was close to the truth.

“You still don’t think he could be delusional?” Havelock asked.

“I’ve already explained why I don’t believe that is the case.”

“No head injury? No chance of plague?”

“A head injury causing such severe delusions would have yielded other, more severe symptoms, and he shows no sign of plague.” When Havelock didn’t respond, Piero added, “I took blood samples while he slept, sir. I swear to you, I found nothing.”

Havelock remained silent, and Piero worried the inside of his cheek with his teeth. He was a reader of books, not of people; he knew better the cogs of any machine than the inner workings of a man’s head, especially a man as austere as the Admiral.

Piero pushed away from his desk and stood, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. He slid it on and, hands clasped together, he stepped in front of Havelock at a distance he hoped didn’t intrude on his personal space. Havelock glanced up at him; his face was settled into a deep frown, but in the soft glow of Piero’s bedside lantern, he could see the exhaustion in his eyes.

“I assure you, sir,” Piero murmured. “I would never suggest such a thing if I did not believe it myself. I understand if it’s difficult to comprehend, especially with a common mind”—Havelock narrowed his eyes at that, and Piero smiled nervously—“still, I swear by my word. If for any reason I’m proven wrong, then…” Piero’s nervous smile widened, and he spread his arms in a gesture of defeat. “Then…then I’m wrong, and you can flay me and toss me to the Wrenhaven for the hagfish if it so pleases you. But I implore you, sir, have a little faith. Would you have sought me out if you didn’t value my counsel?”

Havelock’s scowl deepened and he dropped his gaze. A few long moments passed, and then his shoulders sagged as he released a heavy sigh. His eyes slid shut as he rubbed circles beneath them.

“I’ve never seen anything so bizarre.”

“Nor have I, sir.”

“I just hope this isn’t a mistake.”

Piero offered the Admiral another smile. It strained his cheeks.

“I promise it won’t be.”

* * *

1 “A bheil Mòdhlig agaibh?” – “Do you speak Morlish?”

2 “Glè bheag.” – “Very little.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -slaps fancy new work skin and updated tags on this bad boy-
> 
>  **Huge thanks to my betas (solnishka, atramento, and my dear partner** for their help with this chapter, and huge thanks to my readers for your continued support! :D If all goes well, I'll be back next Friday with a new chapter.


	7. Drapers Ward

Smoke curled past Soap’s lips as he let out a sharp sigh. Sitting cross-legged on his mattress, he rocked his weight back and propped himself up on one hand, using the other to bring his cigarette to his lips. He took a deep drag, then tilted his head back and blew smoke at the ceiling. Strewn on the floor before him were some of his belongings, abandoned in the middle of sorting.

The soft orange light filtering through the opaque windows suggested it was late afternoon. It had been a slow, quiet day at the Hound Pits, and after spending most of the morning going over his gear again in Piero’s workshop and answering the engineer’s seemingly endless questions, Soap had taken the opportunity to nap once he was free. He’d just woken up from said nap, and as much as he’d hoped it would, the smoke he sucked down did little to soothe the frayed nerves left behind by his troubling dreams.

He’d been in the Void again. He remembered that much, because after all, it was hard to forget; the endless abyss had been just as cold and unwelcoming as the last time he’d been there, and even through the tobacco smell, Soap could still smell the sea salt, the rot, the ice that had filled the air of that dark place. As he curled his hand into the mattress and brought the cigarette up to his lips again, his palms remembered the sensation of sharp rock digging into his skin, leaving red welts in its wake. Deep discomfort roiled in Soap’s gut, and the heavy drag he took to combat his lingering anxiety took off only the slightest edge.

Yes, for better or for worse, he remembered the Void clearly. But there had been something else.

Corvo hadn’t been there this time. Soap knew that much. But something in his gut told him he hadn’t been alone, either, and for the life of him, Soap couldn’t remember who had been there in his stead. It was as though his mind had put up a barrier against what he’d seen, and he couldn’t break it down no matter how hard he tried.

The cigarette burned low. With another heavy sigh, Soap rocked his weight forward and crushed the cigarette’s remains in an ashtray beside his mattress. He watched the butt smolder in a bed of ashes.

He didn’t know what disturbed him more; the parts of his dream he could recall, or what he couldn’t. The mental block he felt wasn’t anything like the feeling of simply _forgetting_ bits of a dream on waking. The barrier felt artificial, and the harder he pushed against it, the stronger it became.

The ball of anxiety in Soap’s gut tightened and he dug through his pocket for his box of cigarettes. Finding them, he selected one at random and perched it between his lips. A little voice in the back of his mind nagged at him for burning through his supply, but his craving for a smoke was much stronger.

The sound of footsteps sounded from the hall as he lit his cigarette, and moments later Corvo stepped into the room. In his hands were two tumblers and a decanter of Dunwall whiskey. He crossed the room and sat down across from Soap, tucking his legs beneath himself.

“I couldn’t find it in the Admiral’s quarters,” Corvo said, and he nudged a pile of Soap’s clothes off to one side and set the glasses down on the floor. The crystal clinked softly against the wood.

Disappointment bit at Soap and he stifled the urge to sigh. He was still on the hunt for his journal; initially he’d suspected Havelock to be in possession of it, as it wasn’t with any of the things returned to him that morning. At this rate, he was starting to lose hope he’d ever find it.

“Thank you anyway,” he said, and he took another drag from his cigarette as he watched Corvo pull the stopper on the decanter and pour measured amounts of whiskey into each glass.

“Maybe I should ask Piero if it was mixed up with any of his things,” Soap muttered as an aside, and he tilted his head back and blew smoke toward the ceiling.

“Or you could just ask the Admiral directly,” Corvo said, and he pushed one of the glasses in Soap’s direction. “I’m certain he’ll return it to you, if he has it.”

Soap huffed. “I may just have to do that,” he grumbled, and he picked up his glass. Holding his cigarette to one side, he lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip of whiskey. Immediately he lowered the tumbler and blinked down at his drink; he’d assumed it would be something like scotch, but it was heavier and sweeter than he’d expected—much closer to bourbon. Corvo flashed a small grin at his reaction.

“Is it not to your liking?” he asked.

“It wasn’t what I expected,” Soap responded, and he took another sip. Normally he preferred scotch over bourbon, but this Dunwall whiskey wasn’t too bad, and the more he tasted, the more he noticed the unique flavors unlike what he was used to. Unsure of what he thought of it, he drank a little more and set his glass aside.

Silence settled between them as Soap ran out of things to say. He took another drag from his cigarette, letting his gaze wander to the pile of clothes and gear he’d been organizing before his nap; the Admiral had been kind enough to allow Piero to return his chest rig, watch, and lighter, and Lydia had made short work of repairing and cleaning what she could salvage. Soap let out a low sigh, exhaling a cloud of smoke, then placed the cigarette in his mouth and held it there as he reached first for his chest rig. As he rooted through his pockets in the vain half-hope that his journal would magically turn up, an uncomfortable tingle crawled up the base of Soap’s spine.

Soap tossed his chest rig aside, and as he reached for his whiskey again, he snuck a glance in Corvo’s direction. Corvo was watching him with an arched brow, his head tilted to one side, and Soap averted his gaze and pulled his cigarette from his mouth long enough to take another sip of whiskey. He set the glass down, put the cigarette back in his mouth, and went to work at folding his clothes.

Soap’s jacket was at the top of the clothing pile, but he shoved it aside in favor of re-organizing his secondhand garments. He folded his gray trousers, taking the time to pat the pockets in search of any stray items as he did so. Next, he went through the other clothing given to him. He’d been loaned a few white shirts, two from the Admiral and one from Wallace, as well as one of the Admiral’s old waistcoats. He’d tried them on earlier, and none of the garments had fit right; Wallace’s shirt was a bit long on him, especially in the arms, and the Admiral’s clothes were far too wide in the shoulders.

Then, he came upon his checkered scarf.

It was one of the few items Lydia had been able to salvage, and thankfully, all it had needed was a good wash. There was something comforting about the feeling of the smooth, familiar fabric against his hands—but when he lifted the scarf to his nose, the comfortable familiarity was dashed by the strong, alien scent of lye, and he couldn’t help but flinch away. Soap wasn’t even sure what he’d expected, but this felt _wrong_ , and heat crawled up the back of his neck as a sudden feeling of awkwardness washed over him. He hurriedly folded up the scarf and set it aside with the rest of his things.

All that was left was Soap’s jacket. He hadn’t touched it since Lydia had brought it up to the attic, and now, staring at the jacket as he sucked down sour smoke, Soap wasn’t sure if he wanted to. He almost felt guilty for it—Lydia had done a fine job of repairing what she could, sacrificing some old clothing to patch up whatever she couldn’t stitch shut. Even so, she hadn’t been able to remove the wine-dark stains smeared across the front of the jacket. Not for lack of trying; the sharp odor of lye was strong even from where Soap sat.

For the past few days, Prague had felt far, far away. It had been easy to settle into the rhythm of this place while consoling himself with the fact that this was a dream and that he’d wake up eventually. But now he was faced with the evidence of what had happened that day, and Soap couldn’t ignore the creeping fear that lingered in the back of his mind.

Soap’s chest tightened as he found himself fixating on the blood stains. He drew short, shallow breaths, and the steady ache radiating from his bruised ribs was enough to conjure the memory of them cracking against iron scaffolding. Nausea shot up Soap’s throat, and pulling his cigarette from his mouth, he reached for his glass in the hopes to drown his anxiety in whiskey. The churning in Soap’s gut reminded him of the sickness that came with blood loss, and a pang shot through his chest as he remembered the sticky, hot blood that oozed down his stomach that day. He tried not to notice the way his hand shook when he lifted the tumbler to his lips.

That day had been his closest brush with death since Afghanistan. The terror of that realization was catching up with him now, but Soap couldn’t allow himself to be swallowed by it, because at the end of the day, he’d _survived._ He had to have survived; there was no other explanation as to why he was still breathing. And one day, he would be able to wake up and move on with his life, because while Prague was real, _this_ place—the place he was in now—wasn’t.

He would wake up. He had to.

Soap jumped as something nudged against his arm, and he turned to see Corvo leaning toward him; he was holding out the ashtray, and when Soap glanced down, he realized his cigarette was burning dangerously low, and a buildup of ash dangled precariously off the end. Pressing his lips together, Soap crushed the remains of his second cigarette beside the first, then quickly turned away to drink more whiskey.

“Is there something wrong?” Corvo asked. “You seem upset.”

“I’m fine,” Soap lied. As he took another sip of whiskey, he glanced in Corvo’s direction; judging by the way he stared at Soap with his brows upturned in a sympathetic expression, he didn’t seem particularly convinced. Soap looked away again.

“You know,” Corvo began, “I was planning on going out tonight, to scavenge for supplies.” He scooted a little closer. “I would be glad to have your help.” He paused, then in a low voice he added, “It seems like you could use some time away from the pub.”

Soap downed the rest of his whiskey and tilted his head back, screwing his eyes shut as the burn of alcohol settled in his throat. He didn’t want to admit it, but Corvo was right—he’d do well with the chance to stretch his legs, and in any case, it would give him the chance to see the outside world. After a few moments, he looked back down at his empty glass, then at Corvo. His sympathetic expression had gone unchanged.

“I could,” Soap admitted. Some of the concern on Corvo’s face lifted, and he knocked back the whiskey in his own glass before jumping to his feet.

“I’ll go let the Admiral know,” he said, and with that he left the attic.

Soap lingered upstairs for a few minutes, where he poured himself another shot of whiskey and downed it before gathering the will to wander down to the taproom. Downstairs, all was calm; most of the pub’s residents were elsewhere, and the only other souls present were Lydia, who dusted down the bar, and Piero, who sat at one of the booths, sipping tea and sifting through an old book. Corvo was nowhere to be seen, and so Soap stood at the end of the bar. Heat climbed up his neck and into his ears as he realized how awkward he must look, standing there with his hands in his pockets, but thankfully neither Lydia nor Piero seemed to pay him much mind, and it wasn’t long before Corvo came down the stairs.

“We have permission to head out,” Corvo said. “He suggested we sweep this district to see if we can find anything locally.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Soap saw Piero lift his head and turn to face them. He paid him no mind, however, and instead leaned back against the bar as Corvo continued:

“Personally, I was thinking of asking Samuel to take us to a neighboring district. Most of this place has been picked clean already.”

“Aye,” Soap responded. “Where were you thinking of going?”

“You’re going out?” interjected Piero, and Soap and Corvo turned to look at him. The engineer hurriedly gulped down some of his tea, then set his cup aside and swung around in his seat to face them. He pushed his glasses up his nose.

“If you’re heading out,” he said, “I have a favor to ask of you, if you don’t mind.”

Soap and Corvo exchanged a look—Soap’s curiosity was mirrored by the inquisitive quirk of Corvo’s brow, and after a moment they both turned back to Piero.

“What’s the favor?” asked Corvo.

A wide, toothy grin flashed across Piero’s face and he clapped his hands together.

“There’s a part I’ve been trying to get my hands on,” he began, “and I’ve tracked it down to a black-market dealer in Drapers Ward.” As he started digging through his pockets, Soap and Corvo exchanged another look—this time, Corvo’s lips were pursed in a faint expression of exasperation. Nevertheless, they allowed Piero to continue:

“I would be greatly indebted to you if you could retrieve that part for me. I’ve already scraped together the funds, so all you would need to do is pay the dealer and bring the part back here—” Piero’s pockets came up empty, and a frown settled on his face as he muttered under his breath, “Void, I must have left it in the workshop…”

“Drapers Ward is some ways away,” Corvo said, and with a sigh he added, “though I suppose it wouldn’t be an issue. What part are you looking for?”

Piero’s face brightened and he clapped his hands together again. “Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “It’s just something I need for a…pet project, shall we say.” The table rattled as he jumped up from the booth, and Lydia hissed under her breath from the bar as Piero’s teacup nearly tipped over. “Let me fetch my notes…”

Piero began to mutter to himself as he rushed out of the pub, the door swinging behind him as he left. Soap gave Corvo another sideways glance, unable to help a slight grin at Piero’s enthusiasm; Piero wasn’t always an excitable man, so it was entertaining to see him get so worked up over an opportunity. Corvo still seemed a little exasperated, but when he met Soap’s gaze, something in his face relaxed and the corner of his lip twitched upward.

“You’re going to Drapers Ward, then?” said Lydia from behind them. Soap and Corvo turned in unison to face her; she was idly wiping down the counter, and with one hand she tucked a loose lock of brown hair behind her ear. “In that case, would you two be willing to hunt down a sewing machine for me? It will make tailoring that much easier.”

“A sewing machine?” Soap huffed. “Aye,” he said archly, “you gonna need fabric to come with that?”

Lydia grinned. “And some thread, if you won’t mind,” she responded, mirroring Soap’s dry tone. “With all the repairs I’ve had to make to your clothes, I’m afraid we’re running out.”

Heat settled in Soap’s ears. He knew his presence here would be an additional drain on their resources, but having it said to him so plainly sent a pang of guilt through his chest. Still, Lydia seemed nothing but playful, so he kept up casual attitude.

“At this rate, we’re not gonna have room for other supplies,” Soap said, letting sarcasm edge further into his voice. There was no venom in his words, though, and Lydia’s eyes crinkled as her smile widened.

“I’m sure you boys can handle it,” she said, and the creak of hinges as Piero reentered the pub punctuated her statement.

“I’ve got it!” Piero interrupted, and he stepped between Soap and Corvo and held out a sheet of paper. “Just present this to the dealer, Jerome, and he’ll give you what you need. I hear he’s set up shop in an old apartment overlooking Millenary Canal.”

Corvo took the piece of paper and looked it over; whatever was on it caused his brow to furrow in a perplexed expression, and he silently tucked it into his breast pocket. Curiosity nibbled at Soap and he was half-tempted to ask for a peek, but he held his tongue as Piero excitedly wrung his hands together.

“I cannot thank you enough,” Piero said.

“Right,” Corvo responded. “MacTavish, grab what you need and meet me down by the dock when you’re ready. I’ll let the Admiral know where we’re headed.”

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night—which was to say, pitch black, wet, and utterly miserable. Soap could barely hear himself think when the thunder rolled by, which made tonight the perfect cover for looting.

And that was what they were doing, no matter what Samuel insisted.

The smell of lye mingled with the stench of the river as Soap pulled his scarf tighter over his face, angling his head downward as Samuel’s riverboat skipped across the choppy black waves and set mist spraying into the skiff. Soap tensed his shoulders against the icy wind, a shiver rolling down his back as freezing rain pelted his body and rolled off the waxed surface of his jacket. Across from him, Corvo yanked his hood further over his head and stooped away from the bow, where Samuel himself sat hunched at the helm. A short, stout old man, Samuel clutched his beige jacket around himself with one gloved hand as he piloted his modest riverboat, the _Amaranth,_ to the near riverbank.

“This is as far as I can take you!” shouted Samuel over the storm, his gravelly voice going hoarse. “The canal up Drapers Ward is all dried up!”

 _Just our luck,_ Soap thought to himself, and his lip curled back in a frustrated sneer underneath his scarf. If he’d known this storm would roll in after they’d set off, he’d have insisted that he and Corvo left _before_ sundown—just because he made a career of operating under less-than-savory conditions didn’t mean he fancied it.

“That’s fine!” Corvo shouted back. Soap had to strain to hear him from behind his mask; it was a morbid, oddly elaborate thing, the blueish-gray metal and copper wire depicting a grinning skull. “We’ll find our way on foot!”

A line of dark buildings loomed above the riverbank as Samuel piloted his skiff closer to the shoreline. The pale yellow glow of the streetlamps beyond cut through the darkness and the unrelenting rain, and Soap made out the shapes of debris and stairs leading up to the street when he scanned the riverbank. He rocked forward in his seat as Samuel pulled up to a concrete landing, and the deep rumble passing through the bench and through the floor died as Samuel cut off the engine. Soap snatched a burlap sack from under his seat and leapt to his feet at the same time Corvo did, and being the one furthest from the landing, he waited for Corvo to disembark before jumping out himself. The wave of relief that the transition from rocking boat to solid ground sent through Soap was almost enough to ease the stiffness in his shoulders brought on by the freezing rain. Almost.

Soap turned to face Samuel, slinging the burlap sack over his shoulder and gripping it with one hand. Samuel brought one leg up to rest on the concrete landing, leaning in so that he could be heard over the storm.

“I’m gonna look for a safe spot to hole up while this storm blows over!” Samuel yelled, squinting his eyes against the rain. “You think three hours is enough time to get what you need?”

A burst of wind threatened to blow Soap’s hood free, and with his free hand he tugged it further over his head.

“That should be plenty!” he shouted back. “Anything we need to keep an eye out for?”

“Gangs, mostly! City Watch lost control of this area months ago!”

Corvo came beside Soap and leaned over so that he could also speak to Samuel.

“Understood!” Corvo put in. “We’ll rendezvous back here in three hours!”

Soap and Corvo stepped back onto the landing, and Samuel settled into his boat once more. The engine roared to life, and Samuel piloted away from the shoreline and sailed off into the darkness.

Lightning flashed across the black sky and part of Soap worried after Samuel and his little skiff, but all the same he turned and followed Corvo across the riverbank. His boots squelched in the mud as they stepped off the landing, and Soap hunched his back against the rain as he and Corvo made it to the stairs and climbed streetside. The sharp wind became less biting as they entered the narrow streets that wound between the tall, dark buildings around them, and gradually Soap found that he no longer needed to hold his hood flush against his head.

“Black market dealer first,” Corvo said as Soap fell into step beside him. “Then we hit the buildings around Drapers Ward and see what we can turn up.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The two of them walked together in silence, their boots thumping against the wet cobblestone as they made their way through the silent district. It was hauntingly similar to the state Soap had found the Old Port in when he first woke up here; most of the businesses were shuttered, and while light still glowed from some of the windows of the houses and apartments lining the narrow street, the desolation of this place was as heavy in the air as the river’s stink. Their way was illuminated by the few streetlamps that still worked—Soap was surprised that city officials hadn’t cut the power to this district already. Under the pale, flickering yellow light, he could make out the characteristic diagonal red crosses on the front of those buildings that had been condemned with plague.

The loneliness of this place was palpable, and Corvo’s presence at Soap’s side did little to soften its blow. Soap wondered how many people had been driven from their homes here—and how many of them had died before they had a chance to flee.

A cold chill rushed down Soap’s spine. He gritted his teeth, telling himself it was due entirely to the rain and not the sudden wave of dread that rushed over him. Regardless, he found himself reaching for the knife on his belt, brushing his fingers over the ridged handle. Havelock had allowed him to bring it along for self-defense, and having it on him soothed some of his unease—but only just. The brief feeling of comfort his knife brought him soon melted away and was replaced with a lingering sense of vulnerability. He wasn’t used to being so inadequately armed.

The rain had started to let up by the time he and Corvo finally came upon Drapers Ward proper. The stench of the river, diluted by distance and rain, was weaker when they approached an intersection with a much wider street that curved east to west. Embedded in the cobblestone were metal rails, and as they crossed the street in the direction of what Soap assumed to be a tall, wide depot, they passed under a set of cables stretching down the length of the road. They passed the depot, and Soap realized it wasn’t a depot at all; rather, it was some kind of indoor market, and over the entrance hung an array of luminous signs that spelled out, letter by letter: _DRAPERS._

Drapers Ward was just as run-down and dead as the rest of the district; upturned dumpsters, old wooden boxes, and heaping bolts of rotting fabric littered the entryway into the market, and most of the buildings around them were shuttered. Like the few residents that still lingered here, the gangs Samuel had warned of were no doubt waiting out the storm in their respective hideouts. It was smarter than wandering in the open, at any rate; a chill rushed through Soap as the parts of his clothes that hadn’t been waxed as thoroughly started to soak through, and again he wondered if they shouldn’t have left earlier.

The briny, earthy odor of silt and algae was thick in the air when Soap and Corvo passed the market and finally came upon the dried-up canal. It was deep enough that the sparse light in this part of the district didn’t reach the bottom, through Soap could hear the rain pelting the mud mud far below. On the other side of the canal, a fluttering shape caught Soap’s eye, and he spotted a checkered rag tied to the balcony railing of what seemed to be a closed-down apartment building. He exchanged an inquisitive look with Corvo and received an affirmative nod in response. Together they made their way across a jury-rigged bridge, their boots clanking against the wet sheets of metal, and made their way to the apartment building.

If it hadn’t been for the rag tied to the balcony, Soap would have thought this place abandoned; trash littered the ground around the front stoop of the apartment building, and the windows were tightly shuttered. However, the front door was unlocked, and golden light spilled out into the street as Corvo pulled the door open.

Soap stepped into the cool, dry foyer, and immediately he scanned his surroundings for any sign of danger. There were no guards, nor did he spot any obvious traps at first glance. In fact, the foyer was largely empty. The cream-colored walls were stripped bare, save for the electric lanterns that bathed the hall in warm yellow light. Mud tracks streaked the gray-brown rug stretching down the hallway to the stairwell, evidence of previous customers come and gone. The soft, familiar hum of electricity buzzed over their heads.

There was something oddly surreal about this place, even more so when Soap and Corvo climbed up the stairs to the second floor, where all the doors into the apartments beyond were boarded up—except for one at the very end of the hall. Soap was no stranger to abandoned or repurposed buildings, yet an unpleasant feeling settled deep in his gut, just as it had while traversing the city outside. He rolled his shoulders in a vain attempt to shake the feeling, flexing his fingers around the neck of the burlap sack he’d almost forgotten he was holding. His joints were stiff, and he winced when he drew a deep breath and a sharp jolt of pain shot through his sore ribs.

They came to the unmarked door at the end of the hall. Corvo balled his hand into a fist and gave three heavy, sharp knocks, and moments later a gruff male voice shouted from the other side:

“Come in! It’s open!”

Corvo pushed the door open and stepped aside, allowing Soap to enter the room first. The smell of tobacco and the gentle warmth of a low-burning stove rushed out the open doorway as Soap stepped into the shabby one-room apartment. The room was split in two by a desk and two open-backed bookshelves that served as a makeshift shop counter. The bookshelves were stacked high with metal cans and labeled wooden boxes, and behind the desk, a lean, middle-aged man sat atop a pile of boxes and nursed a cigarette. The brown jacket draped over his shoulders swallowed his narrow frame, the shoulder seams sagging down his arms. As Soap and Corvo entered the room, he stood and tucked one hand in his trouser pocket.

“Welcome to Drapers Ward Salvage and Resale,” said the man as brightly as his scratchy voice would allow. Ashes scattered across the desk as he gestured around the apartment with his cigarette. “What brings you gentlemen here tonight?”

Soap suppressed the urge to scoff at the man’s choice of wording—he’d hardly call two masked, armed men perusing the black market _gentlemen,_ and he wasn’t sure if it was an attempt at humor or flattery. He approached the makeshift counter with Corvo.

“We’re looking for a part,” said Corvo. “Are you Jerome?”

The dealer blinked. “Yeah, I’m Jerome,” he said flatly, and he raised his cigarette to his lips. “What part are you lookin’ for?”

Soap quirked a brow at Jerome’s sudden change in demeanor, but remained silent as Corvo dug around in his breast pocket and produced the folded sheet of paper Piero had given him. Jerome pulled his hand from his pocket and accepted it when Corvo handed it over, and he spread it out on his desk before lifting it up for a better look. He narrowed his eyes as he scanned the note’s contents, taking a deep drag from his cigarette.

“Mm. I see that Piero guy sent you.” He peered up from the paper at Corvo. “You got money?”

Corvo pulled a brown sack from one of his belt pouches, big enough to fill his hand. He tossed it onto the desk where it landed with a heavy thud and the metallic jingle of coins. Jerome set Piero’s note aside and pulled the pouch toward himself. He opened it and started to count through its contents, and Soap pressed his lips together impatiently.

“There’s five hundred coin in there,” Corvo said, his voice light with exasperation.

“I just want to make sure,” Jerome grumbled. “I can never tell with you Serks.”

Annoyance burned through Soap at the dealer’s tone. He snuck a glance in Corvo’s direction and noticed Corvo’s shoulders stiffen, his hand twitching at his side in barely-restrained anger. Whatever Jerome had said, it was meant to be insulting.

“Will you just give us the damn part?” Soap snapped. “We haven’t got all night.”

Jerome’s gaze flickered up to Soap, his eyes going wide for a moment before his face slipped into a distrusting frown. Reluctantly, he shoved the pouch of coins aside and rested his cigarette against the side of a ceramic ashtray, then stooped beneath the desk. He rummaged about for a few moments before standing up straight again, clutching a wrapped parcel. It was wide and long, but just thin enough to hold in one hand.

“You know,” Jerome said, holding the parcel behind the counter, “I’ve got a lot of customers looking for this part. Engineers and the like. A few are even with the Academy.” He shifted it from one hand to the other. “Most of ‘em can do better than five hundred coin.”

A flash of anger burst through Soap and he stepped forward, but Corvo’s arm shot out across his chest before he could speak. Biting his tongue, Soap glared at the dealer as Corvo dug a smaller pouch out of his coat pocket and flung it onto the desk. A coin tumbled out of the pouch opening, and Soap drew a deep breath. He understood why Corvo would want to take the easier route, but he still loathed to reward the dealer’s pettiness.

“That’s another two hundred coin,” Corvo said sharply. “Is that enough?”

Jerome hesitated for a few moments, narrowing his eyes at Soap and Corvo. Soap crossed his arms and tilted his head forward; that seemed to be enough to persuade the dealer, because he finally held out the parcel with a huff.

“Here,” he said, his voice clipped. “Is there anything else?”

Corvo snatched the parcel out of Jerome’s hand. He peeled back the wrapping and peered inside; satisfied with what he saw, he fixed the wrapper and handed it off to Soap.

“No,” Corvo replied in an equally cold tone. “We’re done here.”

Soap took the parcel, blinking in surprise when it was heavier than he’d expected. He slipped it inside the burlap sack, which he then slung back over his shoulder.

Jerome plucked his cigarette from the side of his ashtray and lifted it to his mouth again, and Soap felt his eyes on their backs as he and Corvo turned and left the apartment. Corvo let out a sharp sigh as soon as they were out, and he muttered under his breath in what sounded like quick, angry Spanish.

Soap hadn’t been wrong for thinking the way Jerome had spoken to them was unsavory, though he wasn’t sure if they’d been insulted over their skin tone, where he thought they came from, or both. He wanted to ask, but he decided to wait until Corvo had the chance to settle back down.

Soap was relieved to find the torrential downpour had eased off into a slight drizzle when he and Corvo went back outside. The pungent odor of algae was much stronger now that the rain had let up, but Soap couldn’t find it in himself to care as he stepped down onto the road with Corvo and crossed the makeshift bridge to the other side of the canal. Once there, Corvo took the lead, and the parcel in Soap’s bag thumped against his back as he followed him into an alley jutting away from the Drapers Ward market.

“You think we’ll be able to find that sewing machine for Lydia?” Soap found himself asking.

Corvo scoffed. “If we do, _you’re_ carrying it.”

“In that case, you can carry _this,”_ Soap shot back, lifting the bag over his shoulder when Corvo glanced his way. “I’m not a bloody pack mule.”

A short laugh escaped Corvo, and then silence fell between them once again while they traversed the alleyway. Eventually they came upon a residential street lined with rowhouses on one side, and apartments on the other. Almost all of them were locked down, with some showing clear signs of looting; broken glass crunched under Soap’s boots as he and Corvo passed beneath houses which had their windows broken, and the wooden boards nailed over some of the windows and doors were either crooked or had been broken off entirely and thrown across the street. Even fewer of the streetlamps still worked here than down by Draper’s Ward—though since the rain had let up significantly, Soap could see far better than he had before.

Soap wondered if this place was even worth looting—he imagined the local gangs, survivors, and black market had already picked these buildings clean. Still, when Corvo picked a rowhouse at random and used a stray brick to break down the wooden boards nailed over the door, he decided not to focus this concern. He chose instead to scan their surroundings with one hand on his knife, keeping an eye and an ear out for anyone that might be close enough to hear; Corvo’s banging was liable to attract unwanted attention.

Corvo tossed the brick aside once he’d finished tearing down the boards, and a well-placed kick over the handle was enough to send the front door flying open. Inside was pitch black, and with one hand Soap reached into his chest rig and pulled out the chem light Havelock had allowed him to bring along. He handed it off to Corvo, who tore off the wrapper and bent it until it snapped and glowed bright green.

“That’s still so fascinating,” Corvo muttered as he and Soap stepped up into the house. Dust floated through the thick, humid air, and Soap wrinkled his nose underneath his scarf.

“It’s nothing special,” Soap responded. He kicked the door closed behind them.

 _“Nothing special,”_ Corvo parroted with a scoff. Nevertheless, he led the way further into the house, chem light in hand.

The first room they came upon must have been a living room, if the upturned sofa and rickety low table were of any indication. The green chem light cast an eerie glow on the small, mostly barren room, and the oddly surreal feeling that had nagged Soap earlier returned. People lived here once, and now they were gone without a trace, and Soap and Corvo were there to scavenge what remained. It was necessary, and Soap knew they weren’t the first, but that knowledge did little to quell the rising guilt in his chest.

A modest kitchen was attached to the living room, and Soap and Corvo split up and rummaged through the cabinets. The most they were able to find was a tin of brined hagfish stuffed behind a broken tea set—Soap could only imagine how it had gotten there, but it was sealed with no sign of tampering, so it went into the sack along with Piero’s parcel.

While they continued to comb the house for anything of worth, Soap’s mind wandered back to the black market dealer. More specifically, to the way he’d spoken to them. Jerome’s demeanor had changed almost as soon as Corvo opened his mouth, which led Soap to believe his insult toward them was sparked by Corvo’s heavy accent. Soap wasn’t sure if now was the time to pry, but he wouldn’t know without asking. As he and Corvo picked their way through a bedroom on the second floor, he eventually asked:

“What did the dealer mean when he said, he could never tell with us Serks?”

Corvo was digging through an old nightstand, and his shoulders stiffened as soon as the word _Serk_ left Soap’s mouth. After a moment, he let out a sharp sigh, snapping the top drawer shut and moving to the next one.

“What he meant,” Corvo said, “was that Serkonans are untrustworthy cheats.” Finding nothing in the second drawer, he closed it and opened the bottom drawer. “It was my accent that gave me away.”

“I see,” Soap muttered. Their friend Jerome had something against foreigners, after all. It was nothing Soap wasn’t already familiar with, but as the realization sank in, a newfound wave of indignation surged through him and sent heat prickling up his neck. Pursing his lips, Soap reached into a hole that had been cut into the side of a mattress. His fingers brushed against something small, hard, and round—he withdrew his hand, and in his palm sat a few coins.

“He must have thought you were also from Serkonos,” Corvo continued. “On account of your color, I suspect.”

“My color?” Soap asked, but he understood almost as soon as the words left his mouth. “Ah.”

Corvo stood up from the nightstand and came beside Soap. He kneeled down and dropped a bundle of brightly colored feathers into the burlap sack, which laid on the floor at Soap’s side. The chem light’s green glow caught in the blue lenses of Corvo’s mask as he slowly dipped his head.

“Don’t let someone call you a Serk,” Corvo said firmly. “Or a Morey, for that matter. You’ve got a strong Fraeport accent, and the people here still remember the Insurrection.”

Soap couldn’t help the furrow of his brow. Corvo’s response had answered his question while prompting many more, but all the same he slid the coins into the burlap sack and shoved his hand back into the mattress for one last sweep.

“Aye,” he said.

He rummaged around the mattress for a moment, confirming nothing was left, then grabbed the burlap sack from the floor and the chem light from the top of the bed. He wandered to a desk on the far end of the room and dropped the bag again, then started looking through the drawers on one side. Corvo came beside him and searched through the rest, and Soap worried the inside of his lip for a few moments before saying:

“So, Serkonos is where you’re from.”

“Ah, yes. I was born in Karnaca.” Corvo angled his head in Soap’s direction. “I’m surprised it took you this long to ask.”

“I didn’t want to be rude,” Soap said, pulling a small box out of one of the drawers and cracking it open. Inside were some more coins, and he dropped the box in with the rest of their gathered things. “How long have you lived here?”

“A little over twenty years,” Corvo replied, closing a top drawer and crouching down so he could reach the bottom drawer—the middle one had been removed, and was nowhere to be seen. “I came to Dunwall to serve the Kaldwins when I was eighteen, but before then I was an officer in the Serkonan Grand Guard.”

Soap whipped around to face Corvo, unable to contain his surprise. “An officer!” he exclaimed. “At eighteen?”

“Yes,” Corvo said, and Soap could hear the grin in his voice. “I was brought on because I won the Blade Verbena at sixteen.”

“The Blade Verbena?”

“An annual sword dueling tournament,” Corvo explained. “The greatest swordsmen across the Isles come to compete, though anyone is allowed to participate. A victory almost ensures a junior officer rank in the Grand Guard, no matter who the victor is.”

Soap stared at him. “And you won,” he said. “At sixteen.”

“It was a tough life where I grew up,” Corvo said. Finding nothing of value, he snapped the bottom drawer shut. “In Karnaca, it was either learn to fight, or get stepped on by people bigger and stronger than you. I chose to fight.” He stood and turned to face Soap.

“I got good at it.”

Soap scoffed. “I’d fuckin’ say,” he retorted, and he snatched the burlap sack off the floor and slung it over his shoulder again. “Good enough to win and become an officer before you even hit your twenties.” As he and Corvo left the room together, he asked, “And you said you came here to serve the Kaldwins? Who are they?”

Corvo paused for a few moments, rolling his fingers against the chem light he held aloft in his right hand. As they made their way back down the stairs, Soap looked at him and arched an expectant brow.

“The Kaldwins,” Corvo said slowly, “are the current reigning dynasty. I was brought here to protect the Empress.”

Soap stopped halfway down the stairs as the implication of that statement set in, one hand on the railing. He stared at Corvo’s back and didn’t move even as Corvo noticed he’d stopped and turned around to look up at him.

“You served the Empress?” Soap asked.

Corvo dipped his head.

“Since before she was the Empress,” he admitted. “When I came here, Euhorn was still alive.”

Soap let out a breath, drumming his fingers against the railing as he searched for something to say. Corvo hadn’t talked much about his past, nor had any of the pub’s residents talked to Soap about him, and because of this he hadn’t realized just how accomplished the individual in front of him was. At _eighteen_ Corvo had been deemed skilled enough to protect the then-heir to the throne, a woman who would become the most important individual in the Empire—at that age, Soap was just a nobody who’d joined the military for guaranteed meals and a place to stay. For Soap to say he was impressed would be an understatement.

“Holy shit,” he said after a long moment.

Corvo dipped his head again, then turned and started back down the stairs—regaining his composure, Soap followed him down to the first floor and back out to the street.

While they walked to the next house down the line, Soap’s awe melted away into curiosity—and suspicion. Corvo serving as a bodyguard to the Empress was indeed impressive, but now the Empress was dead, and Corvo was here looting abandoned houses in the hopes that his new employers at the Hound Pits—whatever their goals were—could save some money on supplies. What else, Corvo had specifically mentioned _being there_ when the Empress died, and while their objective was unclear, the organization he was with now were obviously working outside the law. All along Soap had suspected something grave was at stake here, and now he’d just been handed another clue in figuring out exactly what that was.

Now he was going to see if he could wring a few more out of Corvo.

“So,” Soap said as Corvo pried boards off the front door of the next house, “riddle me this.”

Corvo tossed aside the board he’d just pried off and started on the next one. “Hm?”

“How does a man working with the Empress end up looting old houses?”

Corvo froze for a moment, his reaction sending another spike of suspicion through Soap. He quickly resumed what he was doing, prying off the wooden boards with a bit more vigor than before.

“It’s a long story,” Corvo said once he’d finished uncovering the door. The lock on this door was broken, so there was no need for Corvo to kick it free; he simply pushed it open and stepped inside. Soap narrowed his eyes at Corvo’s back as he followed him into the house.

“We’ve got a few hours until we meet Samuel again,” Soap pressed. “There’s time.”

Silence stretched between them again, and Soap bit the inside of his cheek. Corvo’s sudden reluctance to talk was alarming, to say the least, but he _had_ to know the reason behind it.

Soap trailed Corvo into the living room, which was even more sparse than that of the house they’d just left—not even furniture had been left behind. Corvo came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the room, and Soap noticed his grip on the chem light tighten.

“I lost my position as Lord Protector,” Corvo said after a long moment, “because I was framed for the murder of a government official.”

Soap drew a deep breath as he carefully considered what to say next. That single statement had given Soap a massive piece to this puzzle, but Corvo’s slow tone suggested he was picking and choosing what to say.

In the end, Soap decided to wait for the right opportunity to get more information, rather than push his luck with Corvo. Together they scoured the first floor of the house and found nothing of value; deeming it a lost cause, they left and walked further down the row, picking their next house at random. Most of the houses on this row were like the first two they’d entered: completely barren. They had far more luck when they crossed the street and hit the apartments; the first apartment in the first building they broke into yielded some canned food and some copper wire, which Corvo claimed Piero would be able to make use of, and from the next apartment they were able to find more food and a cache of money that had been left behind. They scoured each apartment on the first floor, gradually filling up their bag as they worked their way to the back of the building.

The last apartment on the first floor was larger than the rest and had a modest patio that led out into a back alley. Corvo headed straight for the little kitchen, where he rummaged through the cabinets in search of food; Soap, meanwhile, took the opportunity to leave the burlap sack on the floor near Corvo so that he could wander out into the alley for a quick break. A soft drizzle still rained down from the black sky, and in the safety of the alley, Soap took the chance to pull down his scarf and take a fresh, unobstructed breath of air. His long exposure to the river’s stench meant that he’d slowly started to get used to it, and the smell was almost imperceptible this far inland. Soap tilted his head toward the sky, the light rain droplets kissing his bare skin as he took another deep breath. An uncomfortable twinge shot through his ribs, but Soap couldn’t bring himself to care—instead he closed his eyes, enjoying the cold winter air while he could.

He lingered there for a few moments, then pulled his scarf back over his face and looked around the alley. It stretched behind all the apartments on this row, and a wall separated him from another line of residential buildings on the other side of the alley. Some electric lights were mounted atop the red brick wall, though only some of them still worked. Soap looked back at the apartment building he’d just come out of, taking a mental note of what it looked like, then meandered a little further down the alley.

Posters lined the brick wall separating him from the other houses, and Soap casually eyed them as he walked along. Most were advertisements for some business or another—he even spotted a couple for the Hound Pits, boasting vicious hound fights, the best ales, and the freshest blood ox stew. Now he understood the pub’s namesake, though Soap couldn’t help a twinge of discomfort at the realization that he’d been shacking up at an old dog fighting ring. Regardless, he continued to wander, scanning the posters as he went along.

The adverts plastered on the wall were accompanied by official announcements. Some were calls to action from various branches of the military, the most prominent being the Imperial Navy and the City Watch. A distinct branch of the Watch—the Dead Counter—called for brave men with skill in numbers and a vigorous constitution; Soap assumed, from the wording and the art on the posters, that the branch was established during the onset of the plague.

Soap studied the posters more carefully, his interest piqued. He soon came upon some wanted posters as well, mostly calling for the death or capture of various criminals in exchange for a bounty. He began to lose interest, and suddenly he was aware of just how much time had passed since he’d started his break—and just how far away he’d wandered from the apartment. Soap started to turn back.

And then another wanted poster caught his eye.

This one was different from the rest; it was much bigger and _newer,_ accented with a thick red border different from the blue and green wanted posters. It was plastered directly beneath a working lamp, and the flickering light seemed to beckon him closer. Soap hesitated a few moments, worrying his lip—it was further down the alley, and he wasn’t sure if it was worth the extra seconds it would cost him to go take a look. In the end, his curiosity got the better of him, and with a low sigh Soap approached the poster. This poster, like the others, was adorned with ink drawings, and Soap drew close enough to see—

Soap’s stomach dropped and he froze in his spot.

Corvo’s face stared back at him, his menacing black stare detailed in thick, heavy black ink. The resemblance was unmistakable—the artist had captured Corvo’s features down to the curl pattern of his hair, the bump in the bridge of his wide nose, the slight unevenness to his upper lip.

Soap’s chest tightened, and he yanked his scarf free from his face as his breaths came quicker. Below Corvo’s portrait was the portrait of a woman, her regal features set into a forlorn expression and framed with a high, intricate white collar. Soap grit his teeth and his eyes shot to the accusation at the top of the poster. It was written in large, bold lettering, and Soap read it over and over again, searing the words into his mind:

**_WANTED_ **

_FOR THE MOST HEINOUS MURDER OF OUR FAIR EMPRESS JESSAMINE KALDWIN_

**_CORVO ATTANO._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a doozy. More was going to happen in this chapter, but as I started to approach 8000 words I realized it needed to be split in half...so that's what I did ;u; 
> 
> **Huge thanks to my betas (solnishka, atramento, and my dear partner) for their help with this chapter,** and huge thanks to my readers for your continued support! :D Next week will be the continuation of Corvo and Soap's Adventures through Drapers Ward™.
> 
> (Somebody please give Soap a hug!)


	8. Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Violence and minor character death ahead! Stay safe!

**_WANTED_ **

_FOR THE MOST HEINOUS MURDER OF OUR FAIR EMPRESS JESSAMINE KALDWIN_

**_CORVO ATTANO._ **

Prickling heat crept up the back of Soap’s neck. His hands twitched, then curled into fists at his sides as he read the accusation over and over again, burning the words into his memory. He stared at Corvo’s portrait, into his eyes, and let out a sharp breath.

Soap wasn’t stupid. He’d known the moment he’d woken up in Piero’s workshop that he’d stumbled into something illicit, and deep down he _knew_ it had something to do with the death of their Empress. Now the proof stared him in the face, and the anger creeping up his back flared hotter as the gravity of the situation sunk in.

Corvo lied to him.

The gentle patter of rain against his back was undercut with the electric hum of the flickering streetlamp. The cold seeped through Soap’s jacket and sent a tremor through his shoulders, though he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He drew a deep breath, and a faint, yet sharp ache shot through his chest.

Soap ran down his list of options. He could cut his losses and run. His chances would be slim, but they would still be chances; it would be Corvo’s nineteenth century tactics against Soap’s years of SAS training and experience. He would have to learn to survive here on his own, yes, but maybe it would be better that way. Every day he spent at the Hound Pits with Corvo and the others was another day he risked being implicated with them, if and when they eventually got caught by the City Watch. Soap wasn’t interested in losing his head for these people, especially since he didn’t even know what their goals were.

A huff escaped Soap and he shook his head. No, running away was an appealing fantasy, but Soap couldn’t be that rash. He couldn’t afford to jump to conclusions, either—it was just as likely that Corvo had indeed been framed like he claimed, and while he had still lied, Soap had to admit there _was_ a distinction between half-truth and a complete untruth. His next option would be to go back and demand the whole truth from Corvo…but that carried its own risks.

Until now, Corvo had been friendly and trusting toward Soap, and he had no reason to believe Corvo would continue to lie if Soap had proof of his discovery. But if Soap had learned anything over the years, it was that people couldn’t always be taken at face value.

Distant thunder rumbled through the black sky. A cold breeze swept through the alley and sent a chill down Soap’s spine. The edges of the poster fluttered in the wind.

Soap knew what to do.

He drew another deep breath and let it out in a long sigh, trying to settle the anger bubbling in his chest. He reached out with one hand and thumbed one loose edge of the poster. Then, he grabbed it and ripped it free; it came away clean, and he looked down at the poster in his hands one more time before folding it and tucking it away into his coat pocket.

He would have his truth. One way or another.

Soap tugged his scarf back over his face, then made his way back to the apartment. He hadn’t spent nearly as much time out as he’d thought, because when he returned through the patio door, Corvo was still rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. He lifted his head as Soap stepped back inside, the bright green glow of the chem light reflecting off the blue lenses of his morbid skull mask.

“I’m making one more pass in here before we move on,” Corvo said as Soap pulled the door closed behind him. “Did you find anything useful while you were out?”

A twinge of irony passed through Soap and with less self-control he might have bitterly scoffed. Instead, he schooled his face into careful neutrality.

“No. I didn’t.”

Corvo nodded and went back to looking through the cabinets.

Soap moved on to the sitting room while Corvo wrapped up his search through the kitchen. Nothing was stopping him from confronting Corvo now, but for now, he thought it would be best to bide his time. Wait for the right moment.

The wanted poster was a heavy weight over his breast. He _would_ have the truth.

Eventually they finished combing through the apartment, which had yielded a surprisingly decent amount of canned food, among other resources. They tried to go upstairs to hit the apartments on the upper floors, but their way was blocked off by furniture that had been arranged in the staircase as a makeshift barricade. Tearing it down would’ve cost more time and effort than it was worth, and thus they returned to the streets.

As they looted the next apartment buildings down the line, Corvo seemed to relax in Soap’s presence—as much as he could relax in a district run by gangs, at any rate. It was as though Soap had never questioned Corvo about the reason behind his fall from bodyguard to scavenger; he was nothing but comfortable in the silence that had fallen between them, only speaking when he needed a favor or when helping Soap appraise the worth of an item he wasn’t sure of.

Soap tried to see a murderer in Corvo, tried to see someone who’d turn a blade on the woman he’d served for over twenty years. But all he could see was the man who’d stood up for him when the Admiral wanted Soap dead for trespassing. All he could see was the man who’d shared a cigarette with him on that first lonely, uncertain night in Piero’s workshop. All he could see was the man who’d helped him look for his journal in the morning and who’d shared whiskey with him in the afternoon.

So far, Corvo was the friendliest face he’d seen since he first woke up in this strange city. Yes, the other residents of the pub were civil, and some were even friendly as well, but Soap would be lying to himself if he said they didn’t treat him as either a curiosity or something to be feared. Hell, the only reason Soap was out tonight was because Corvo had been perceptive enough to notice his impending anxiety attack, and sensitive enough to suggest a way out.

Soap was pulled out of his thoughts when, as he was rummaging through a dresser at the end of a small bedroom, he noticed Corvo abruptly stop in his tracks out of the corner of his eye. He turned just enough to watch Corvo bend over next to a bed and pick something up off the floor; as Corvo stood up straight, Soap realized he was holding a little knit doll.

Corvo ran a thumb over the doll’s face, and his fingers curled into the fabric of its little green dress. A few moments passed where Corvo silently stared down at the doll, and there was something almost sentimental in the way he finally set it aside on a bedside table. Not overly gentle, but rather…thoughtful. He kneeled down beside the bed and peered beneath it as though nothing had happened, and Soap turned back to the dresser he’d been searching through.

“You got a family?” Soap found himself asking, sifting through the articles of clothing still left behind in the dresser. Whoever lived here had left in a rush.

There was a short stretch of silence, and unsure if he’d been heard, Soap glanced Corvo’s way. Corvo was sitting on his knees beside the bed, staring down at the floor as though deep in thought.

“…I do,” he replied after a long moment, and he opened up one of the drawers of the bedside table. Soap raised a brow.

“Got any kids?”

Corvo froze momentarily, and Soap tilted his head. After a few seconds, Corvo began to look through the drawer he’d just opened.

“One,” he said. “A daughter.” He looked over his shoulder, toward Soap. “You?”

“Nah.” Soap turned back around and snapped the drawer shut, then opened the next one. “I’ve got a niece back home, though.”

“I see.”

Soap pulled a small box out of the dresser. An assortment of buttons peered back up at him when he cracked the box open. He idly wondered how his own family was doing. If they were safe.

Soap’s throat tightened as he stared down at the box of buttons. It had been over a year since he last spoke to his family, maybe even closer to two years at this point. Even before Shepherd’s betrayal had reduced him and Price to fugitives, the nature of Soap’s work meant that he had no way to safely communicate with his family. And what else, he had no way of telling how long he’d been in the throes of this dream, nor did he know when he’d ever wake up— _if_ he’d ever wake up. He didn’t know if they were safe or not.

Most of his relatives still lived up in Glasgow or in Elgin, which put them out of the way of the worst the war had to offer. But his niece was attending university in London last time he spoke to her, and when the gas attacks happened…

Nausea curled in Soap’s gut and he shut the box of buttons, then shoved it back in the dresser. When the gas attacks happened, he’d hunted for any scrap of information he could get his hands on, but found nothing about his niece. He could only hope that she was alright.

A low sigh broke Soap’s train of thought, and he looked over his shoulder in time to see Corvo sit on the bed and take off his mask. The glow of the chem light exaggerated the dark bags under his eyes and the fine lines under his face. His brows furrowed over his closed eyes, and as he sagged in his seat, Soap did his best to search his face for any sign of a murderer. All he found was a tired, worried man.

Soap hesitated, wondering if he should say anything as he silently watched Corvo. After a few moments, he asked:

“What’s she like?”

Corvo’s eyes snapped open and he looked at Soap.

“My daughter?”

Soap nodded.

A thoughtful look crossed Corvo’s face and he looked down at the mask in his lap.

“She’s an energetic child,” Corvo murmured, running his thumb over the copper wire holding his mask together. “Since she learned to walk, she was always getting into trouble wherever she could.” His lip twitched upward into a small smile when he added, “She got that from me, I think, but she got her stubbornness from her mother.”

Soap turned and faced Corvo fully, leaning his weight back against the dresser. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“I always called her, ‘ _mi Pajarita_ ,’” Corvo said after a long moment, “because she was like a little bird. Always flying around, getting herself into messes.” He looked up from his mask, meeting Soap’s gaze, and his smile widened. “’Pajarita’ also means ‘bowtie,’ and Outsider’s eyes, but she loved her bows. In her hair, in her clothes—she wore them all the time.”

Soap couldn’t help a small smile of his own. “I don’t know a single dad who could ever resist a good pun.”

The edges of Corvo’s eyes crinkled.

“She was always an adventurous little one, too,” Corvo continued. “She would always try to fight me with sticks she found in the garden before I gave in and started teaching her actual techniques, and she’d pretend that we were soldiers from opposing armies.” He chuckled. “Once when she was six, she hid in one of the garden trees and jumped on my back while I was looking for her. That was the first time she took me by surprise.”

“She hid in a tree?” Soap let out a short laugh. “Like a little bird.”

Corvo tilted his head to one side, visibly swallowing as his gaze wandered to the wall behind Soap. His lips parted as he let out a short breath, his brow turning upward in an expression that was equal parts sadness and fondness.

“Like a little bird,” he repeated softly.

Soap’s eyes lowered to the mask in Corvo’s hands, and he noticed then how tightly Corvo gripped it. He felt obligated to respond to Corvo’s obvious sadness, but Corvo spoke again before he could think of what to say.

“We were separated after I was accused of murder,” he murmured. “I have no idea what’s happened to her since then.” In a lower, weaker voice, he added, “I hope she’s alright.”

A sympathetic pang shot through Soap’s chest and he couldn’t help his brows turning upward. He knew just how crushing that worry could be.

Corvo drew another breath, then let it out in a sharp exhale. He blinked rapidly, then fitted his mask back over his face and abruptly stood.

“We should finish up in here,” he said, his voice taking on a cooler tone. “I don’t want to keep Samuel waiting.”

Soap worried his lip as he watched Corvo return to the bedside table he’d been searching through. He hesitated for a few moments before finally turning back around to root through the dresser, making one last pass before it was time to move on to the next apartment.

Soap didn’t see a coldblooded murderer in Corvo. All he saw was a sad man who worried after his daughter and tried his best to survive in a time of crisis. If he was pushed past the point of no return, then maybe he could see Corvo snapping and doing something drastic. Especially if it meant protecting people he cared about.

Soap drew a slow, deep breath as his mind drifted to his niece. He would have killed to protect her. He _has_ killed to protect her, at least indirectly. Would Corvo have killed for his family? Would he have murdered his own Empress if it meant keeping his daughter safe?

Did the Empress, in some way, deserve to be killed?

Soap scowled to himself as he rummaged through the old clothes in the dresser. All of this effort in coming up with a reason _why_ Corvo would have killed the Empress worked entirely on the assumption that he actually did it in the first place. It was just as likely that Corvo was telling the truth about being framed—but that still didn’t answer the question of why Corvo had been implicated, or why she was murdered to begin with.

His mind wandered to the wanted poster in his pocket. When the time was right, he would have answers.

The night dragged on. As their bag of scavenged goods filled up, Corvo finally judged them ready to return to the rendezvous point. They had gone a long way down the neighborhood, and at first Soap assumed they’d find their way back from there; instead, Corvo made the decision to backtrack to the Drapers Ward marketplace. It was an odd decision—surely it would’ve been faster to head straight for the rendezvous point—but in the end, Soap trusted Corvo’s judgement.

Their boots thudded against the wet cobblestone as they traversed the winding alleys linking the residential streets to the marketplace, with Corvo lighting the way with the chem light he held in his hand like a torch. The cold air was thick with moisture left behind by the long-passed storm, and Soap looked forward to when he’d be able to remove his scarf again. He rolled his shoulders against the weight of the burlap sack he carried, scanning his environment as he and Corvo traveled.

The cramped, labyrinthine back alleys split off in all directions, and there came a point where all the buildings around them were indistinguishable. Soap stuck close to Corvo, all too aware of how easy it could be to get lost if he weren’t careful. Like the alley behind the apartments, the brick walls enclosing them were plastered with a wide array of posters—these, however, were unreadable. Most of them were either partially torn down or covered by the graffiti that defaced most of these buildings. Itching for a distraction from the encroaching brought on by these damp, narrow alleys, Soap studied the graffiti.

 _‘NO ONE WILL KEEP US FROM DEATH’_ screamed at him from the walls, the words painted in bold, white lettering. Soap’s creeping discomfort mounted and he averted his eyes, only for him to find another sentence slathered on the brick in black paint: _‘BLOOD FROM THE EYES!’_

A twinge of pain flared through Soap’s ribs as he drew a sharp, deep breath. The more he read, the more he realized the despairing nature of the graffiti around him. Most of the written messages referenced the plague, with some begging for food and others speaking of tragedy at the hands of disease and rats. Others referenced a Lord Regent, usually involving colorful insults against his manhood and claims of tyranny. Some of the graffiti didn’t involve written messages at all—painted skulls and rats were plastered across the walls, and every so often Soap would see the mark of the plague painted in white, black, or stark red.

Soap’s grip on his burlap sack tightened and he adjusted its position over his shoulder, trying to ignore the way his stomach churned. The despair of this place was thick on the cold, humid air, and a chill crawled up Soap’s spine as he realized just how surreal it all was. These messages were the echoes of the people who lived here; how many of them remained, clinging to the remnants of the life they had before the plague? How many fled—and how many more died before they could get the chance?

Despite his rising anxiety, Soap continued to read the graffiti while he followed Corvo down the alleys. The more he read, the more he noticed one particular phrase that repeated more often than the others. He hadn’t paid it mind before—the open despair over the plague had been far more attention-grabbing at first—but now, he couldn’t ignore his rising curiosity as, over and over again, he saw the phrase:

_‘THE OUTSIDER WALKS AMONG US.’_

Soap had heard mention of the Outsider before, but only in passing; ‘ _Outsider’s eyes’_ seemed to be a favorite expression of the locals, Corvo included. He assumed the _Outsider_ was some sort of deity or spirit, and his constant reference alongside plague suggested he was malevolent in nature.

Soap’s mind wandered to the previous night, when Corvo explained the Abbey and the Void. He had said something about the Void, as well as _‘he who walks it,’_ being seen as something for the common people to protect themselves against. Had Corvo been referring to the Outsider in that moment?

Soap’s breath hitched as the memory of last night’s dream crept in. Even now he remembered the Void clearly, but it still felt as though something was missing, and something in his mind was keeping him from discovering what it was. Someone had been in the Void with him, he _knew_ it—and though Soap was never a superstitious person, he couldn’t help his rising sense of suspicion.

Could it have been…

Soap was yanked out of his thoughts when Corvo abruptly stopped in the middle of the alley, his right hand shooting up in a gesture to halt. Corvo’s head tilted to one side as though he were listening to something, and Soap furrowed his brow and looked around.

They stood at an intersection with another alley, this one wider than the one they traveled. The waxing moon cast a silvery glow over the buildings surrounding them, reflecting off the lid of a toppled-over skip bin in the next alley. The windows of the buildings surrounding them were dark and many of them had been boarded off, though some of them had been broken into. The shattered glass on the ground glittered in the glow of Soap’s chem light, which Corvo held in his hand like a torch. A rat scuttered from under the skip and dashed off into the dark.

Corvo slowly turned his head, his hand still raised in his silent gesture. Soap continued to search for any sign of danger, and his confusion rose when he heard and saw nothing.

“This way,” Corvo hissed after a tense moment, and he slipped into the next alley. Soap swallowed his apprehension and followed him behind the skip bin, where they crouched together in the shadows. Corvo tucked the nearly-spent chem light into his coat, smothering its glow.

“What’s going on?” Soap asked in a hushed voice, only for Corvo to respond with a sharp gesture demanding silence. Soap bit his tongue, unable to help his face from slipping into a perplexed frown. He listened closely from behind the skip, straining his ears for whatever might’ve set Corvo off.

Moments later, he got his answer.

The heavy thump of boots against cobblestone approached from the other alley, coming from the direction Soap and Corvo had been headed. Soap instinctively reached for his knife, gripping the handle as he tried to count the footsteps. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard four.

Beside him, Corvo leaned to one side, peering around the other end of the skip in the direction of the alley. The footsteps drew closer, and Soap’s grip on his knife tightened as he, too, peered out from his hiding space.

A group of four heavily built men entered the intersection. All of them wore similar blue neckerchiefs, with the one in the lead wearing his around his left arm, and they were all armed with cleavers the size of swords. Soap narrowed his eyes as he scanned them for more details, but all too quickly they vanished down the alley in the direction Soap and Corvo had come from.

Soap and Corvo lingered behind the skip as they listened after the men, waiting for their footsteps to trail off into the night. Soap let out a breath once he was certain the coast was clear, releasing his hold on his knife.

“Gangs?” he asked.

“…Yes,” Corvo said, his voice slow with confusion, “but not a gang I expected to see in this area. This is Hatter territory—I don’t know what gang those men come from, but they’re not Hatters. That, I can be certain of.”

Soap turned to face Corvo. “How can you tell?”

“The Hatters always wear top hats,” Corvo said simply.

Soap couldn’t help but scoff. “Right,” he muttered. “How did you know they were coming?”

“I heard them.”

“Bullshit. I didn’t hear anything.”

Corvo stood from his hiding spot, digging through his coat for the chem light.

“We should get moving,” he said.

Soap rose to his feet, narrowing his eyes at Corvo’s back as the other man stepped back into the next alley. Earlier Corvo had reacted like he’d heard something right next to them, but Soap knew there had been nothing to suggest anyone was coming their way; he’d have heard or seen otherwise. Corvo dodging around an explanation only contributed to the uncanny sense of apprehension creeping along Soap’s back.

Silently, Soap followed Corvo into the next alley, listening closely for any sign of company while they traveled. Soon the alleys spilled out into wider streets, and finally they came upon the Drapers Ward marketplace. Soap breathed a short sigh of relief, thinking that now they would head for the rendezvous point—his relief was short-lived, however, and he frowned as Corvo turned and headed down the street in the direction of the market.

“I thought we weren’t gonna keep Samuel waiting,” Soap said.

“There’s a place I want to stop by,” Corvo replied over his shoulder. “We still have to get supplies for Lydia.”

Soap pursed his lips, but despite his reluctance, he followed Corvo. He _had_ promised Lydia they’d gather sewing supplies for her, after all, and he wasn’t about to break that promise. It was the least he could do to repay her help in patching up his clothes, as much as he loathed the idea of lugging a sewing machine around the city. _If_ they could find one.

The luminous signs buzzed high over their heads as they stepped into the Drapers Ward market. The market was made up of two levels, with stairs leading up to the shops on the upper floors. Corvo stopped in the middle of the market and looked around, then waved Soap in the direction of a tailor’s shop on the ground floor. Like all the other businesses around them, it was shuttered, and posted notices warned against trespassing—Corvo completely disregarded them, picking up a stray brick and launching it at one of the windows.

Soap winced as the window shattered, spinning around and listening hard for signs that someone might’ve heard them. Corvo, meanwhile, nudged jagged shards of glass from the bottom of the window and carefully climbed inside. Soap lingered outside for a few moments, making sure that the coast was clear, then tossed the burlap sack inside the shop and climbed in after Corvo. His boots crunched against broken glass.

“Can you think of a way to break into these places that _doesn’t_ involve giving away our position?” Soap snapped once he was inside, letting his irritation seep into his voice.

“How else would you have suggested we get inside?” Corvo asked coolly.

“I don’t know,” Soap quipped. “Something that doesn’t involve bricks.”

Soap’s irritation burned hotter as Corvo simply chuckled in response and turned to the interior of the shop. His flippant attitude was starting to get on Soap’s nerves—there was no way for them to know who was around to hear them, and they couldn’t afford to get caught off guard while gallivanting about a district crawling with gangs.

Stifling the urge to sigh, Soap grabbed the bag of supplies and slung it back over his shoulder, then looked around. The sparse light from the streets barely penetrated this far into the market, and so the chem light illuminated their surroundings. The tailor’s shop was largely untouched, the walls lined with mannequins that still wore the same clothes they’d been outfitted with before this place shut down. A shop counter divided the room in two, and two doors in the back of the store led off to the separate rooms. On either side of the doors, the walls were lined with shelves, which were stacked high with folded clothing, boxes, and bolts of fabric.

Corvo made a beeline for the back of the shop, tossing the chem light on the counter before jumping it on his way to the shelves. Meanwhile, Soap wandered around the shop, studying the old, clothed mannequins and the advertisements plastered on the walls. The smell of dust was heavy on the air, and Soap let out a huff as he stepped next to the counter and deposited the bag of supplies on the floor.

“You think the back rooms will give us anything useful?” Soap asked.

“Maybe,” Corvo responded. He dragged the chair from behind the counter and pulled it up to the shelves. “If we can get in.”

Soap glared at Corvo’s back. “Without any bricks this time.”

Soap could hear the smirk in Corvo’s voice as he replied, “Yes, without any bricks this time.”

Soap shook his head, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as he looked down at the counter. If there was a register here before, it was gone now; at least someone had the time to run out with the cash before the shops closed down. He scanned the counter for anything of worth, and was intrigued when he came across a stack of newspapers. Picking one up and holding it to the light, Soap read the header out loud:

_“The Dunwall Examiner.”_

Corvo let out a sharp scoff. “Garbage,” he grumbled, and Soap looked at him curiously as he stood on the chair and pulled a bolt of fabric down from one of the shelves. “Nothing but pure gossip.”

Soap couldn’t help a slight grin at Corvo’s reaction. “Is that so?” he asked, and he examined the newspaper. It was clearly old, Soap squinted at the date at the top: _7 th Day, Month of Earth._

“ _The Dunwall Daily Gazette_ is much more trustworthy,” Corvo asserted, tossing the bolt of fabric onto the counter. “The hacks with _The Examiner_ couldn’t put together a straight story if their lives depended on it.” He looked over his shoulder at Soap. “Would you mind putting that fabric in with the rest of the supplies?”

Soap hummed in response and set the newspaper aside so that he could put away the fabric. The label pinned to the end of the bolt told him it was linen, and it was probably once white, but had since faded into more of a creamy beige. Soap wasn’t sure how much fabric Lydia needed or how he’d even cut it, so once he pulled it off the bolt he folded it up and shoved the entire thing inside the bag. He hoped the amount they had would do the trick.

Corvo tossed some more bolts of fabric on the counter, then climbed down from the chair. Soap furrowed his brow at the array of different fabrics in front of him.

“…Are you sure Lydia needs all this?” Soap asked, running a hand over some dark blue wool.

“I don’t know,” Corvo admitted, turning around to rummage through the counter. “I don’t know how to sew.”

Soap pursed his lips, unconvinced, but went to work at putting away the fabric regardless. As he did so, Corvo produced some spools of thread from under the counter, picking a variety of colors and materials seemingly at random and shoving them Soap’s way. The thread went in the bag with the rest of their supplies.

While Soap organized the fabric and thread inside the burlap sack, Corvo disappeared into one of the back rooms—which, thankfully, was unlocked. He looked up when he heard Corvo grunting with effort, and a few minutes later Corvo hobbled out of the back room, with a sewing machine—and the entire damn sewing cabinet—in tow. Soap crinkled his nose, standing up straight as Corvo set the entire setup on the floor.

“That’s what she meant by a sewing machine?” Soap asked.

Corvo cocked his head to one side. “What did you think she was referring to?”

“I was thinking we could find one of those little ones that you can just plug…” Soap trailed off as he realized what he was saying, heat flushing in his face in embarrassment as he imagined Corvo’s expression behind that mask.

“…Into a wall.”

Corvo laughed at that, and Soap’s face burned hotter. “Welcome to Dunwall,” he said, and he leaned his weight forward on the sewing cabinet. “If it makes you feel better, I think this is the portable model.”

“Portable?” Soap scoffed. “The machine alone must weigh, what? Nine, ten kilos?”

“Kilos?”

Soap furrowed his brow, then shook his head.

“Guess you must use pounds, then.”

“Well,” Corvo said with a sigh, “in any case, it’s nothing we can’t handle.” He stood up straight and looked around the counter, one hand still resting on the sewing cabinet. He found where the counter opened up to allow traffic, and he flipped up the countertop before lifting the sewing cabinet and carrying it to the other side of the shop. He let out a sharp breath as he lowered it again, resting his arms on top of the machine.

“If you carry this, I’ll carry that,” Corvo said, jerking his chin in the direction of the burlap sack.

“Why do I feel like I’d be on the losing end of that bargain?” Soap asked dryly.

Corvo patted the top of the machine. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, earning another scoff from Soap. “We’ll head back soon—there’s something I want to look for while we’re here.”

Soap nodded, and Corvo went back behind the counter and sifted through the shelves on the back wall. Soap wandered to the other side of the store, examining the line of mannequins arranged there. Most of them were dressed in men’s evening suits in a wide array of colors, and Soap found himself absorbed in inspecting the different garments.

Soap took the sleeve of one brilliant blue suit in his hand and rubbed the fabric between his fingers. It was a handsome thing, with black lapels trimmed in gold, and a white cravat tied around the mannequin’s neck. This was a tailor’s shop—part of Soap wondered if this had been an item of clothing for sale, or simply put out for display until its owner could pick it up and bring it back home. What kind of man would own this suit, and what would he wear it for?

Distantly, Soap thought back to the houses they’d just looted and the graffiti in the alleys. It hadn’t been hard to compartmentalize his guilt and tell himself they were just looking for supplies—in fact, it had been quite easy—but now that their scavenging was almost done and he had time to reflect, he realized that was exactly what they were: scavengers. They were like vultures, picking away the scraps that still clung to Dunwall’s bones.

Soap worried the inside of his cheek with his teeth, furrowing his brow at the blue suit. After a few moments, he released the sleeve and moved on to the next mannequin. 

The graffiti in those alleys were the voices of the people who lived here, people whose fates Soap would never know. He tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that this was a dream, but that did little to soothe his unsettled nerves. Even dreams could be disturbing, and as Soap spent more time here, the more familiar he became with the horrors the people of Dunwall went through…and he was more than aware he’d only touched the tip of the iceberg. To these people, their world was ending, and it wasn’t hard for Soap to imagine why they believed that.

 _‘THE OUTSIDER WALKS AMONG US.’_ The despairing proclamation was branded in Soap’s mind.

“…Oi, Corvo?”

Corvo’s voice sounded from the other end of the shop. “Mm?”

Soap thumbed the lapel of a sea green suit jacket, then turned to fix Corvo with a curious look.

“Who’s the Outsider?”

Corvo turned away from the shelves, tilting his head as though surprised. “The Outsider?”

“On our way here,” Soap explained, “I saw graffiti that mentioned him. Is he…” He glanced back at the suit he’d been examining. “…Is he some kind of devil?”

Corvo hummed lowly, and Soap looked up in time to see him turn back to the shelves.

“If you’re asking if he’s an evil spirit of some kind,” Corvo responded, “then not quite.” He pulled a box from the shelf and peered inside. “…though I suspect the Abbey would disagree.”

“Care to explain?”

Corvo let out a sigh, pushing the box back on the shelf and pulling out another.

“He’s the one who walks the Void,” Corvo began. “The Abbey preaches that he is the one from which chaos comes, and that it is his goal to spread discord among the common people and doom their spirits to the Void.” He pulled off the lid of the box and rummaged about a bit, the sound of shuffling fabric reaching Soap’s ears. “But I believe their view of the Outsider, like their view of the Void, is hopelessly narrow.”

“It only accounts for one side of the coin,” Soap said, and Corvo glanced over his shoulder.

“You remembered that?”

Soap nodded and gave a slight grin, hoping Corvo could at least see it in his eyes.

“Yes, well…” Corvo turned back to his box. “Like the Void, the Outsider is neither good nor evil. That’s what I believe, at least—but I’m afraid my belief is an uncommon one.”

“I see,” Soap muttered. He was right in his earlier assumption; though Corvo clearly disagreed, it seemed most of the people here thought of the Outsider as a devil-like figure. The fact that his name was invoked during a time of plague was especially telling, given his connection to chaos.

“Are there any other gods?” Soap found himself asking.

“None,” Corvo replied firmly. “There are other spirits, yes, but they are all nameless, and none are so powerful as to deserve the title of _god._ Not like the Outsider.”

Soap frowned, turning back to face the sea green suit. Maybe it was just his Catholic upbringing that was making him narrow-minded, but he couldn’t imagine a religion in which the only known god was the embodiment of the world’s evil. He _tried_ to imagine that, tried to imagine an alternate world where the teachings he grew up with mirrored the teachings of the Abbey, but for the life of him he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Soap’s relationship with religion was complicated enough as it was.

“No offense,” Soap muttered, “but the Abbey sounds bleak as hell.”

Corvo’s snicker was muffled behind his mask. “It is horribly bleak, yes.”

Soap pulled back the lapel of the suit jacket, eyeing the rich yellow waistcoat beneath it. As silence settled between in and Corvo again, his mind wandered back to the people who once lived in this district. He thought of the graffiti, of the various trinkets he and Corvo either passed over or slipped into their sack with the rest of their supplies, intending to hand them to Piero so that he could pawn them off on the black market. Those things, like the clothing he examined on this mannequin, once _belonged_ to someone, and he couldn’t shake the dread that came hand in hand with that knowledge. There were people here, once. Families.

Soap recalled the doll Corvo had nearly stepped on in one apartment, and the conversation that came after. Corvo once had family, too, and now there was no telling where _his_ family had gone in the face of this chaos. Perhaps, if he hadn’t been imprisoned, he might have known.

The wanted poster burned over Soap’s breast.

“Hey, MacTavish—do you think this would fit you?”

Soap turned around to see Corvo standing atop the chair again, holding up a long, dark brown coat which Soap could only describe as a duster. Soap frowned, looking the garment up and down. It certainly looked big enough to fit him…maybe even a little too big, the more he examined it.

“…Probably,” Soap responded. “Corvo, don’t tell me you came here to do some _shopping—”_

“We’re already here,” Corvo interjected, “so we might as well.” He turned the duster around so that he could get a good look at it himself, his head tilting curiously. “Perhaps Lydia could tailor it for you, if it doesn’t fit right.”

Soap’s brow furrowed as his frown deepened. “I already have a jacket, you know.”

“You can’t walk around in that bloody thing forever. You look like a plague victim.”

Soap stifled the urge to sigh and looked down at himself. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Corvo had a point; he didn’t exactly fancy walking around the city in a blood-streaked jacket. He didn’t even like _thinking_ about this damn thing; part of him wished Lydia had just binned it when she realized the blood stains wouldn’t wash out. Soap’s reasoning was less out of vanity, however, and more due to the fact that his bloody jacket served as an unwelcome reminder of what had happened in Prague.

Honestly, he could use some new clothes.

“Just as well, there’s a nice waistcoat in here.” Soap glanced up to see Corvo holding up said waistcoat with one hand, the duster draped over his other arm. The waistcoat was also dark brown, and coppery-gold buttons glinted at Soap in the glow of the chem light. “Looks about your size.”

“Didn’t the Admiral already give me one?”

Corvo tossed both the duster and the waistcoat onto the counter, then jumped down from the chair he was standing on.

“Never hurts to have more.”

Soap pursed his lips as he watched Corvo rummage through the bolts of fabric on the shelves again, likely searching for fabric that matched the color and material of the garments he’d picked out. He didn’t know how he felt about taking clothes that probably belonged to someone else at one point, but he realized now wasn’t the time to be picky. As much as it unsettled him, the reality was that he had to take what he could get.

In any case, this wasn’t a topic Soap was really interested in fighting Corvo on. What he was _truly_ interested in was getting the truth about the murder of the Empress—a truth he’d been skirting around this entire time.

“Corvo—”

Corvo’s head shot up and he whipped around to face the window they’d come in through, taking Soap off-guard. His shoulders stiffened.

“Do you hear that?” he hissed.

Alarm shot through Soap and he listened intently, looking toward the window for any sign of a threat. A shadow passed through the dim light that filtered from the streets, and Soap heard the sound of boots crunching against glass.

_We’ve got company._

“Well, lads,” a gruff voice called from outside. “Look what I found.”

Soap’s hand shot to his knife as a man stepped in through the window, his heavy boots crushing the broken glass scattered across the wooden floor. He was one of the men they’d run into in the alley—Soap recognized the blue neckerchief tied around his arm.

Three more men filed in after the first, and the cleavers hanging from their belts glinted under the chem light’s glow. Slowly, Corvo edged out from behind the counter, not looking away from the men who’d just entered.

“You think this is them?” the lead man asked his companions. One of them, a broad-shouldered blond, looked between Soap and Corvo with narrowed eyes.

“Yeah, it’s them.”

Soap curled his fingers tighter around the handle of his knife, coiled to spring at any moment. If these men were here for a fight, his and Corvo’s odds weren’t good; they were outnumbered, and Soap was out armed.

“We’re not here to fight with you,” Corvo said slowly, his palms turned out in an expression of peace. “We’re only here to gather supplies. Let us go, and we’ll be gone within the hour.”

“This ain’t about turf,” the first man said. “This ain’t our turf, anyway. You bought something of our employer’s.”

Soap grit his teeth against the wave of frustration that washed over him. Jerome had given them enough trouble already—part of him wished Corvo had let him shake some sense into the little weasel—

“What, does he want more money?” Corvo let out a scoff. “I gave him everything I had. Seven hundred is more than fair—”

“He don’t want _money,”_ the first man retorted, and he spat on the ground. “He wants the _part.”_

Soap snuck a glance in Corvo’s direction, whose head turned his way. There was no getting around it; they would have to fight.

They both faced the thugs at the front of the store.

“We paid him what he deserved,” Corvo said coldly. “It’s ours.”

The thugs’ leader looked between Soap and Corvo with a scornful sneer. The tension in the room mounted as no one made a move, all tightly coiled as the seconds ticked by and they stared at each other. Soap edged his knife out of its sheath. Corvo’s hand twitched at his side.

“Get ‘em!”

Metal rang through the air as the thugs drew their cleavers. The leader advanced on Corvo, blade held aloft. Corvo stepped back and his hand flew to the pistol strapped to his chest. He drew it before the thug could close the space between them.

 _BANG._ Gunshot cracked through the air and ripped through the leader’s gut. He let out a strangled scream and staggered back. His writhing body crumpled to the ground, and two of the men behind him leapt forward.

Blood pounding in his ears, Soap grit his teeth and slipped into a defensive stance as the last thug split off from the other two and blocked his path to Corvo. A crooked, toothy sneer stretched across the man’s tanned face. A silver tooth glinted at Soap in the chem light’s glow. He raised his cleaver.

Soap’s heard thudded in his chest and he edged backward, eyeing the wide blade. He wasn’t stupid—a knife stood no chance against a sword.

A gunshot rattled Soap’s teeth and pained howls filled the shop. Soap’s gaze shot past the thug’s shoulder. He saw the blond thug clap a hand over his ear. Blood oozed between his fingers.

Soap’s attention snapped back to the man in front of him in time to see him lunge. His heart leapt into his throat and he jumped backwards in time to dodge a heavy downward swing. The blade clanged against the wooden floor, and the thug let out a frustrated grunt.

Soap let out sharp, quick breaths as he searched for an opening. One never came; the thug struck at him again and again, forcing Soap to dodge each time. He deflected one wayward swing with his knife, and the blow sent shockwaves through his arm and up into his teeth. Soap stumbled backward and gulped down a sharp breath. The heavy odor of whale oil permeated the air.

There was no getting past the thug’s wild attacks; as soon as Soap recovered from one blow, he had to dodge the next. Metal sang past him with each swing, and Soap heard the thug grunt with effort over the blood pounding in Soap’s ears.

The thug swung his cleaver in a wide arc, and Soap jumped to the side. Too late—he hissed through his teeth as sharp pain burned in his shoulder. Blood oozed down his arm and he resisted the urge to grab his wound.

 _Shit._ Nausea curled in Soap’s gut and his knife wavered in his hand. He couldn’t dodge forever; he needed to get the upper hand.

He was on his own—the clang of metal against metal told him Corvo was still occupied with the other two. Soap’s heart fluttered in his chest. His head whipped around as he searched for something he could use.

The hardwood floors were smooth and free of debris. Nothing Soap could pick up. Frustration burned through Soap and he shot a look over at the counter. It was too far away to use as cover; making a run for it would be a risk. Soap staggered back, his chest tight with fear, and his heart skipped a beat when something solid brushed against his back. He looked over his shoulder; he’d bumped into one of the mannequins.

Soap narrowed his eyes. That would do.

The silver-toothed thug let loose a thundering cry and threw an overhand strike. Soap’s blood ran cold, and he hooked one hand around the nearest mannequin. He threw it in front of himself. A spark of triumph lit up in Soap’s chest when the cleaver lodged itself in the mannequin with a deep thud. The thug’s eyes widened, but before he could recover, Soap grabbed the mannequin and yanked it to one side. The thug’s grip on his cleaver loosened.

With a low, ragged cry, Soap swung the mannequin to the floor. Bitter satisfaction surged through him when the momentum ripped the cleaver from the thug’s hands. It clattered to the floor.

The thug spat out a curse and swung a fist at Soap’s face. Instinct took over and Soap’s arm shot up to deflect the blow. The fist glanced off his elbow and across his arm, leaving the thug’s torso exposed.

_There!_

Soap sprang forward. Flesh ripped under his blade as he plunged the knife in the thug’s belly. The thug’s hot breath spread across Soap’s neck as he gasped. The gasp heightened into a yawp when Soap yanked the knife free and stabbed him again. He grit his teeth as blood gushed over his hand.

The thug slumped to the floor. Soap stepped over his body. He didn’t have time to acknowledge his victory; Corvo was still cornered on the other side of the shop. The clash of metal rang through the store as Corvo deflected blows from the other two thugs with his sword. The blade glinted green under the chem light. He held his own, but two opponents had him on the defensive; he needed help.

Soap rushed the man closest to him. Unaware of his approach, his target lifted his arm in preparation for a downward swing on Corvo. Cold determination surged through Soap as he snatched the man’s thick brown ponytail and yanked his head back. The man let out a surprised cry and swung his cleaver blindly, narrowly missing his blond companion.

Soap pressed his chest flush against the man’s back. Gritting his teeth, Soap plunged his knife into the man’s throat. The man’s cry choked off into a gurgle as Soap tore his windpipe open. His cleaver tumbled out of his hand. The sharp smell of blood flooded Soap’s nose.

The last thug whipped around, his eyes widening when they fell upon Soap. He opened his mouth, but the scream in his throat cut into a ragged gasp when Corvo drove the blade through his torso. Blood spilled onto the floor as he ripped the sword free, and one clean slash was all it took to finish him off.

The last bodies crumpled to the floor with a final resounding thud. Soap let out a low sigh, the heavy beat of the war drum in his ears slowing as he looked down at the bodies before him. Blood pooled on the dark wooden floors, and he was suddenly aware of how slick with blood his knife handle had become.

As the excitement of the fight died down, the nausea curling in Soap’s gut heightened. Corvo was a deadly man, and Soap couldn’t deny his own skill, they had gotten lucky. That was the only reason these men were dead, and he and Corvo weren’t. If that mannequin hadn’t been there…

The wound on Soap’s arm burned and his breath hitched in his throat. His face felt cold.

 _This is a dream,_ he told himself. _None of this is real._

Blood oozed down his arm.

The thumping of Corvo’s boots against the floor pulled Soap out of his thoughts and he looked up. Corvo gently pulled back the ripped fabric on Soap’s shoulder.

“You’re wounded,” he said softly.

“It’s nothing,” Soap muttered. He drew a deep breath, then jutted his chin toward Corvo. “You alright?”

“Yes. And you?”

Soap nodded. His blood was still ice in his veins.

Low, guttural groans sounded behind Soap, and he turned around to see the body of the thugs’ leader sprawled out on the floor. He rolled about in a pool of his own blood, his shaking hands pressed weakly against the bullet wound in his gut. Groans and choked whimpers spilled from his mouth, which hung open in an agonized grimace.

Soap gave Corvo another look, and Corvo responded in turn with a nod. He picked up his gun from where he’d tossed it aside on the floor and reloaded it, then stepped up to the moaning thug. He leveled the pistol at the man’s head and squeezed the trigger. Gunshot rattled through the air.

The thick, piscine odor of burning whale oil mingled with the smell of blood and dust as silence finally settled over the shop once more. Soap let out another sigh before cleaning his knife on the edge of his jacket and sliding it back into its sheath. Corvo holstered his gun, then bent over and ripped the blue neckerchief from the arm of the thug he’d just killed. He wiped his sword clean with it, then tossed it aside before flipping the blade back into the hilt. Soap let out a low huff.

“That’s neat,” he remarked under his breath. Corvo turned to face him.

“We should leave,” Corvo said. “We might have attracted attention…”

Corvo’s voice trailed off and his shoulders stiffened, his hands twitching at his sides. Confusion welled in Soap’s chest, until he looked down at himself and realized that his coat pocket was open. Peeking out of the top was the bright red border of Corvo’s wanted poster.

 _Of course._ Soap let out a short breath and shook his head, then pulled the poster out of his pocket.

“Now’s a good as time as any, huh?” Soap remarked, cold sarcasm edging into his voice. He unfolded the poster and held it out, and Corvo recoiled as if struck.

“When were you planning on telling me,” Soap inquired, “that the so-called ‘government official’ whose murder you were framed for was actually the Empress?”

Corvo’s chest swelled as he drew a sharp breath. He said nothing as his hands curled into fists, then relaxed again. After a few moments he reached out and took the poster from Soap, then brought it close to himself. He ran one bloody finger over the face of the poster, tracing the outline of the Empress’ portrait.

“…I should have told you,” he admitted after a long moment, barely audible from behind his mask. “I didn’t think, if I told you right away, that you’d understand—”

“Help me understand now, then,” Soap interrupted, his impatience rising. “Explain.”

“But—”

“We have time.”

A few heartbeats passed where Corvo said nothing. Soap opened his mouth to speak, but Corvo lifted his head just in time to interrupt.

“I had returned from a journey across the Isles,” Corvo said softly. “Two days early. We were in the pavilion. I was delivering a message. None of the other guards were there—they’d been sent away.”

Corvo’s voice trailed off and he looked down. His fingers curled into the poster.

“There were several attackers,” he murmured. “They came twice. I was able to hold them off the first time, but the second time they…overpowered me. One of them took the Empress’ daughter, and the other…” His voice hitched and his shoulders shook, and it was some time before he spoke again.

“They found me cradling her body. They blamed _me.”_

Soap said nothing, instead letting out a sharp sigh and averting his gaze to the nearby wall. He wasn’t sure what to think; part of him wanted to believe Corvo was telling the truth, but given how he’d skirted around it before, Soap was less inclined to believe him now. Just as well, he still got the sense that Corvo wasn’t telling him the whole story. Soap was running out of patience for this little game of half-truths.

“You doubt me.”

Soap spun back around to face Corvo. He was looking straight at Soap now, his head tilted forward as he held the wanted poster at his side. The blue lenses of his mask glinted in the green light.

“I served the Kaldwins for over twenty years,” Corvo said bitterly. “I was at Jessamine’s side since she was a young woman, and I protected her daughter from the day she was born. They weren’t simply my charges—they were my _family._ You tell me”—his wavering voice dropped low—“what kind of man would turn a blade on his own family?”

“Can you really blame me for not believing you?” Soap shot back. “Not once this entire time has anyone told me the truth of what’s going on here. Corvo, you fucking _lied_ to me back there—”

“I can’t just—!” Corvo cut himself off, the poster crinkling in his hand as he balled it into a tight fist. “I didn’t think you were ready. I don’t know what else you want to hear—"

“I just want the bloody _truth_ ,” Soap interrupted. “The whole truth.”

“I _gave_ you the truth,” Corvo insisted. “Is that not satisfying?”

Soap let out a sharp scoff. “How do I know you’re not lying _now?”_

“What _else_ do you want from me?” Corvo demanded. “A confession? Would it please you if I said I killed her after all?” He stepped forward. “For six months they tried to force a false confession out of me. I will not betray Jessamine by giving one now.”

Soap and Corvo stood in silence for what felt like ages. Faintly aware of the distrusting grimace his face had twisted into, Soap glared into Corvo’s mask, and part of him wished he could rip the damn thing off and look him in the eyes—

_Crunch._

Corvo whipped around and Soap’s hand shot for his knife again as a stranger stepped in through the broken window, dipping his head so that his tall hat didn’t brush against the top of the opening. He straightened up and surveyed Soap and Corvo with a critical eye, and behind him, two more men filed in through the window—both were wearing top hats. _Hatters._

“What have we got here?” the first man said, crossing his arms expectantly. His two companions stood behind him, their hands coming to rest on the swords at their hips.

Soap and Corvo looked at each other before turning back to the first Hatter.

“We’re passing through,” Corvo said after a moment. The first Hatter let out a hearty scoff.

“ _Passing through,_ that’s rich. Making a damn mess, more like.” The two other men stepped from behind him, but rather than advancing on Soap and Corvo, they examined the bodies left behind by their battle. “What business you got here?”

“Shopping,” Soap responded sardonically.

The first Hatter’s lip curled in an equally ironic smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “I see.”

“Hey,” one of the other Hatters said, kneeling beside the body of the first man Soap had killed. “These guys ain’t Dead Eels.” He pulled the blue neckerchief from around the dead thug’s neck and held it up for the others to see. “They’re Bluejaws.”

“Bluejaws?” The first Hatter frowned. “What in the Void are they doing on our turf?”

“They were following us around,” Corvo explained. “Jerome sent them.”

“What business you got with Jerome?”

Corvo mimicked Soap’s sarcastic tone. “Shopping.”

The first Hatter arched a brow. “Mm.”

A few silent moments passed as the two subordinate Hatters milled around Soap and Corvo, examining the bodies of the Bluejaws. Their leader, meanwhile, eyed Soap and Corvo, his frown going unchanged as the seconds ticked by. Soap held his breath, unsure of what would happen—the Hatters didn’t seem overly aggressive for now, but he knew how quickly that could change.

“Who are you with?” the first Hatter finally asked.

“No one,” Corvo replied. “We’re just passing through, like we said.”

“I see. Well, I suggest you two get a move on.” The Hatter uncrossed his arms and rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. “The boys and I better drop by Jerome’s and ask him a couple of questions.”

Soap and Corvo exchanged a quick glance. Soap couldn’t see his face, but he wondered if Corvo didn’t feel the same grim satisfaction he felt knowing that Jerome’s underhandedness had just landed him in hot water with the Hatters.

The two subordinate Hatters returned to their leader’s side, and all three men filed out of the shop, one at a time. Soap and Corvo stood still as they listened to their trailing footsteps, and Soap allowed himself to breathe again when he could finally hear them no more.

“That was fortunate,” Corvo breathed out once the Hatters had departed, and he let out a long sigh.

As Corvo turned around and headed for the counter, Soap hesitated by the window. He was thankful their encounter with the Hatters didn’t end in another fight—Soap wasn’t interested in risking his neck again over a pointless scuffle over territory. There had been enough needless death tonight as it was.

The shuffle of fabric pulled Soap from his thoughts and he turned to see Corvo stuffing the garments he’d picked out into the burlap sack. The bag and its contents had thankfully gone untouched in the chaos, and Corvo pulled the drawstring and slung the bag over his shoulder.

“Let’s go,” Corvo said, and he stepped over the bodies of the Bluejaws as he made his way to the window. Pursing his lips, Soap walked up to the sewing cabinet left behind by the counter and lifted it. His breath escaped him as he realized just how heavy the whole kit was, and he let out a low grunt as he lifted it higher and carried it over to the window. The wound on his shoulder burned as his arms strained under the weight.

Despite the fatal fight they’d gotten into, tonight had been valuable in more ways than one. They got what they came for and then some—and Soap finally had another piece in solving the puzzle of what was going on here. The Hatters had come at an inopportune time, and now it looked like Soap wouldn’t get a chance to continue his conversation with Corvo until much later; as much as this fact frustrated him, he couldn’t deny that what he _had_ heard told him more than Corvo might have realized.

Corvo didn’t kill the Empress. Despite the doubt still gnawing at the back of Soap’s mind, he felt more confident now than before that Corvo had been framed. There had been sincerity in Corvo’s pained voice when he talked about the Empress’ death, sincerity in the intimate way he’d spoken about her and her daughter. Could that be faked? Possibly, but Corvo didn’t seem the type to play up his emotions for the sake of sympathy.

But regardless of whether or not he actually killed her, one thing rang true: at the end of the day, Corvo was connected to the Empress’ death, one way or another. And that meant whatever he and his employers were doing was also connected. In what way, Soap still didn’t know.

Soap hauled the sewing cabinet through the window, then climbed out after him. Corvo waited patiently on the other side. Once Soap got his bearings, Corvo turned and headed for the market exit, the burlap sack thumping against his back. Soap narrowed his eyes after him.

He would get the whole truth. One way or another.

With a heavy grunt, Soap lifted the sewing cabinet and followed Corvo into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This...proved to be much longer than the previous chapter ;u; I'm going to play some Sunless Sea now
> 
> Also you may have noticed that there's an inspired work linked to this fic! One of my readers has started a drabble series that takes place alongside the Call of Honor storyline. I definitely recommend checking it out!
> 
>  **Huge thanks to my lovely betas (solnishka, atramento, and my dear partner) for their help with this chapter,** and thank you to my readers for your continued support! :D If all goes well, I'll be back next week with a new chapter!


	9. Outside Hanging

“There’s been a change of plan.”

Corvo tilted his head.

“A change of plan, sir?”

Havelock leaned forward in his chair and propped his elbows on his desk. The air in his quarters was thick with the smoke of a half-spent cigar, which he clutched in one hand. Behind him, pale blue curtains swayed in the cool breeze wafting in through the open windows.

“I heard back from one of my contacts last night,” Havelock said. “I trust you’re familiar with Captain Geoff Curnow of the City Watch?”

Corvo blinked. “I am,” he answered. “We sailed together when I was sent across the Isles. Why?”

Havelock tapped his cigar on the side of a glass ashtray.

“From what my informants gathered,” he began, “Curnow has plans to meet the High Overseer tomorrow evening. Apparently, they’re set to discuss an incident that took place between the Watch and the Overseers a few nights ago.”

“What sort of incident?” asked Corvo.

Havelock shrugged and made a dismissive gesture with his cigar. “Something about a fight that broke out down by Treaver’s Alley. That’s not important; what _is_ important is that we now know for a fact that Campbell will be at the Office tomorrow evening. Which means, Corvo, I will be sending you out tomorrow.”

Gray smoke curled toward the ceiling as Havelock took another puff from his cigar. Corvo stared.

“…Tomorrow?” he echoed.

Havelock nodded. “Furthermore,” he added, “Miss Curnow spoke to me this morning.”

Corvo couldn’t help a quirk of his brow. If he remembered correctly, Captain Curnow had shared during their journey that their Miss Curnow—Callista—was his niece. He wasn’t aware if they were still in contact, but given the circumstances, he assumed not.

“Through servant gossip,” Havelock continued, “Miss Curnow claims to have heard that Campbell received an unusual shipment last night. She _suspects_ it has something to do with tomorrow’s meeting.” Havelock tapped the cigar against the ashtray again. “She believes that Campbell plots to poison the Captain.”

A pit formed in Corvo’s stomach.

“How certain is she?” he asked.

Havelock leaned back into his chair with a sharp exhale. “She’s insistent, though if you ask me, I’m not so sure.” He shook his head. “I’ve been waiting on word from Martin, but he’s been silent since he left for the Abbey.”

Corvo leaned forward. “Is that a problem, sir?”

“Not at all—knowing him, he’s likely just laying low. But what if Miss Curnow tells us is true, then I expect to receive confirmation sometime today.”

Some of the tension left Corvo’s shoulders. “Very well, sir,” he responded. “I take it you’re sending me tomorrow as a favor to the Curnows?”

Havelock hummed lowly. “Think of it more as seizing an opportunity,” he responded. “The reason we’ve been holding off on sending you after Campbell is because he’s been spending more and more time at Dunwall Tower. Whether there’s a plot on the Captain’s life or not, we do know for _certain_ that Campbell will be at the Office tomorrow evening. It’s the perfect time to strike.”

Corvo let out a breath. It was a pragmatic approach, but the Admiral was right; it was better to take this chance now than wait for one to come by later. Still, Curnow was a fine man, and their brief friendship had made the harrowing task of sailing around the Isles a little easier to bear. If his life was indeed in danger, then Corvo wouldn’t mind saving him as a favor.

That was, _if_ he was able. The bitter truth was that rescuing Curnow would be secondary.

“Of course,” Corvo said after a few moments.

“I know how long you’ve been waiting, Corvo.” A sympathetic look crossed Havelock’s face, and he gestured toward Corvo with his cigar. “Soon,” he said with a shake of his head, “we won’t have to hide in the shadows.”

Corvo looked to the floor.

The last time Corvo saw High Overseer Campbell was the day he’d escaped Coldridge. He had been standing over Corvo in the interrogation room, promising last rites in exchange for a signed confession to Jessamine’s murder. His proud, flattish face was burned into Corvo’s mind, just as the torturer’s hot iron burned into his flesh.

For two months, Corvo had been waiting for this moment—had been _fantasizing_ about this moment. After a lengthy recovery and weeks of planning, his time was finally upon him. It had come much sooner than he’d expected, but Corvo was ready. More than that; he was _eager._

“Take today to prepare.” Havelock’s authoritative voice pulled Corvo out of his thoughts, and he looked up to meet the Admiral’s steady gaze. “I’ll send you out tomorrow evening.”

“Understood, sir,” responded Corvo. Then, after some hesitation, he asked, “And MacTavish?”

A frown crossed Havelock’s face and he puffed on his cigar. A few moments passed before he responded:

“The details of your mission are on a need-to-know basis.”

Corvo raised a brow. “Meaning?”

Havelock fixed him with a cool stare. “Does he need to know?”

“…I suppose not.”

“There’s your answer. Dismissed.”

* * *

Soap tapped his fingers against the side of his thigh, pursing his lips and staring at the far wall, as Lydia fastened the buttons up the front of his coffee brown waistcoat. The sturdy wooden box he stood on creaked under his weight as he shifted from foot to foot. Lydia tsked at him under her breath in a warning to stay still. The soft yellow light from the lantern on Corvo’s desk caught in the wispy strands of brown hair that refused to stay in her bun. Behind her, Cecelia stood huddled in a corner. She eyed Soap from behind the tall mirror she clutched in her spindly hands.

“I think,” Lydia murmured as she fastened the final button, “this may be done. Cecelia, the mirror?”

Cecelia lifted the mirror, which was almost as tall as she was, and scurried across the room. She positioned it between herself and Soap like a shield, tilting it upward so that he could see himself. Lydia stepped out of the way, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“There,” she said. “What do you think?”

Soap frowned down at his reflection. The waistcoat fit well; it had been close to his size to begin with, and Lydia’s adjustments had made it a touch more personal. No, that wasn’t the issue; the issue was that Soap wasn’t sure of how he _felt_ about the damn thing.

He reached up and tugged at the shawl collar with one hand. He was no stranger to waistcoats, but he rarely wore them outside of formal occasions, and he hadn’t been prepared for how _dated_ this one looked. It ended higher than he was used to, coming to a shallow point at the front of his waist. He twisted around to view his back the best he could and eyed the lace ties cinching his waist. The back of his waistcoat was paneled in soft yellow fabric, probably cotton, to offset the rich brown in the front.

Lydia’s shoes clicked against the wooden floor as she stepped closer to Soap’s box, leaning beside him so that she could look in the mirror too. She gazed up at him through their reflections. Seemingly sensing his apprehension, Lydia offered a small, reassuring smile.

“I think it’s lovely on you.” She lifted her head to look at him directly. “Do you disagree?”

Soap drew a breath, resisting the urge to worry his lip. It didn’t look _bad_. Lydia had done a fine job, and he’d hate to imply otherwise. It was just…

Different.

Soap glanced in Cecelia’s direction, gauging her reaction. Her eyes were locked firmly on the floor; whether out of politeness or shyness, Soap couldn’t tell.

After a few moments, Soap let out his breath in a short sigh. “It looks just fine,” he replied, and he started to step down from the box. “Can I go—”

Lydia’s smile fell and she rushed in front of Soap.

“Not yet!” she ordered, placing her hands on his chest. “We still need to see how the coat fits.”

Stifling another sigh, Soap stepped back up onto the box. He returned to tapping his thigh as he watched Lydia turn around and grab the coat from where it was draped over the end of Corvo’s bed. Light danced in the corner of Soap’s eye as the mirror wavered in Cecelia’s hand.

“You can put that down now,” Lydia said when she turned back around. Cecelia breathed a low sigh of relief and retreated back into her corner. She set the mirror against the wall.

“Do you need me to take this off?” Soap asked, his fingers brushing over the buttons of his waistcoat.

“No, no,” Lydia replied, “keep it on. Here, put out your arms for me.”

Soap lifted his arms, and he winced as a twinge of pain shot through his left shoulder from his sutured flesh wound. Lydia stepped behind him and helped him slip the coat on. He adjusted it so that it fitted comfortably. Gently, Lydia patted the underside of his arm.

“Lift them higher,” she said. “Higher—yes, like that. I need to check the seams.” She hummed softly, then said, “Lower them again. Straight at your sides.”

Lydia traced her fingers along the shoulder seam and muttered to herself under her breath. Her voice faded into the background as Soap stared at the far wall again, faintly aware of the way Cecelia fidgeted in her corner. A tap on his shoulder pulled him back into reality.

“Turn around, please.”

The wooden box creaked precariously beneath Soap as he turned to face Lydia, letting out a soft sigh. Lydia frowned at the front of Soap’s coat and tugged at one collar.

“I think I can attach a hood,” Lydia muttered, “but it will be tricky. Maybe I could add one without removing the collar…ugh, thank the stars Corvo had the foresight to pick out matching fabric…”

As Lydia fiddled with the collar and examined the seams of the coat, her voice trailed off once more into a soft buzz. Resisting the urge to sigh, Soap eyed the cobwebs in the ceiling corner above Corvo’s bed. He didn’t notice himself shift his weight to one side until Lydia gave his hip a firm smack.

“Stand up straighter!”

Soap snapped to attention. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, but after a few moments he forced himself to relax.

“Here, lift this arm again,” Lydia instructed. Soap did so, not looking away from where he’d locked his eyes on the wall. Soap’s mind started to wander again as she examined a seam. He was only faintly aware when she stepped back and placed a hand on her hip.

“Right,” she said. “Now do a handstand for me.”

Soap did a double take when her words sank in. He blinked wide-eyed down at Lydia, and she returned the look with a knowing grin. Somewhere behind him, Soap caught Cecelia’s snicker before it morphed into a suspicious cough.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re paying attention,” Lydia explained. A twinge of indignation passed through Soap and he couldn’t help his scowl.

“I _am_ paying attention.”

Lydia’s grin widened. “No,” she said, “you’re not.” But all the same she stepped forward again to tug on the lapel of Soap’s coat. After a few moments, she asked:

“You’re excited, aren’t you?”

Soap pursed his lips. It felt childish to admit, but he was eager to get this over with. It wasn’t because Lydia was a bore. Far from it, actually; though the process of tailoring was tedious, Lydia was good company. No, he was eager to get this over with because today was the day he’d finally get to train with a sword.

The scuffle in Drapers Ward had awakened Soap to one reality of this strange world; if he wanted to defend himself, he needed to learn how to handle a sword. Problem was, Soap didn’t have anything to train with. Corvo deemed using wood or metal scraps too dangerous, and the Admiral wasn’t exactly jumping at the prospect of lending his weapons for the sake of education. Corvo wanted Soap to learn without running the risk of accidentally maiming himself, in any case. And so, Corvo and Soap had spent the last few days going over footwork empty-handed—while Piero crafted training swords.

And as of last night, the training swords were complete.

“I’d be excited too,” said Lydia, “if I were you.” She shook her head and pulled the coat tighter around Soap’s waist. “You’re learning from the best.”

Soap thought back to the thugs in the tailor’s shop. “So I’ve gathered,” he responded, and Lydia chuckled.

“Right. I don’t see any changes I could make to this coat; it already fits you quite well.” Lydia tilted her head up to look Soap in the eye. “I could add a hood if you’d like. It’ll take a couple of days, but with the recent weather, I think it’ll be worth it.”

“Let’s do it, then,” Soap replied.

“Of course! Turn around so I can measure you. Cecelia, the measure tape?”

As Soap turned his back on Lydia, Cecelia crossed the room and swiped Lydia’s measuring tape from Corvo’s desk. She adjusted her dark blue flat cap over her messy red hair as she slunk up to Lydia, who muttered her thanks when the tape was handed to her. Cecelia returned to her corner, sneaking a timid look Soap’s way as she did so.

“Hold your head straight,” Lydia said, and Soap obeyed. “Lift your chin a little—there we go. Now let’s see…”

Soap felt Lydia’s fingers press the measuring tape firmly against his shoulder. She unspooled it to the top of his head. While she measured, Cecelia produced a small journal and a stick of graphite from one of her pockets. Lydia read out the measurement, and Cecelia flipped the journal open and scrawled it down.

“Alright,” Lydia murmured. Soap glanced over his shoulder to see her wind the measuring tape around her hand. “I think that’s it for the coat.”

“Seems I came just in time.”

Cecelia let out a soft yelp, and Soap’s heart skipped a beat as he whipped his head around to face the doorway. He hadn’t even heard Corvo’s approach, but there he was, leaning against the doorframe with one hand in his pocket like he’d been there the whole time. In the corner, Cecelia clapped a hand over her chest and hung her head, releasing a soft sigh.

“Master Corvo!” Lydia stepped from behind Soap. “You startled me!”

“It seems I’ve startled everyone,” Corvo said. His voice was tinged with amusement, and yet a small, apologetic grin crossed his face. “My apologies.”

Soap’s shoulders sagged as he let out a low breath, recovering from the start Corvo had given him. Corvo’s gaze turned on him and he looked Soap over. His grin widened.

“That coat suits you,” he said with a jerk of his chin.

The corner of Soap’s lip twitched upward. “Thanks.”

Corvo pushed off the doorway and stepped further into the room. He raised a brow at Lydia.

“Do you have everything you need?” Corvo asked. Soap gave Lydia an expectant sideways glance and saw her face settle into a slight frown.

“I was going to see how the Admiral’s waistcoat fit him,” she murmured, bringing her hand up to her chin. The flash of disappointment that shot through Soap’s chest quickly vanished when she added, “But I suppose we can do that later. I need time to draft a pattern for the hood, anyway.”

Lydia gestured for Soap to take the coat off. He didn’t need to be told twice; he hurriedly slipped off the garment and handed it over before jumping down to the floor. A wave of relief washed over him now that he was free.

“Do you want this back?” Soap asked, reaching for one of the buttons of his waistcoat.

Lydia shook her head and draped the coat over her arm. “Keep it on for now. Tell me if anything feels off while you’re going about your day, and I’ll adjust it for you.” She shot him a pointed look. “And if you get that dirty, Outsider’s eyes, I’ll—”

“Aye!” Soap shot back, and with an exaggerated sigh he added, “I _know.”_

A broad, toothy smile spread across Lydia’s face and she patted Soap’s arm. “Good luck,” she said, and after nodding his thanks, Soap followed Corvo out of the attic.

As they walked down the stairwell, Soap’s mounting excitement continued to grow, and he couldn’t help but fidget with his hands. He knew he was receiving training for practical reasons, but he couldn’t deny the dash of childish glee he felt at the prospect of having his own sword. Reminding himself that it was just a training sword did little to quell his enthusiasm.

“How’d your meeting go with the Admiral?” Soap asked in an attempt to distract himself from his bubbling excitement. He glanced sideways at Corvo and added, “Or are you not allowed to tell me?”

The slight upward curve of Corvo’s lip answered Soap’s question, and he huffed and looked forward again.

“Figures,” he replied, though if he were being honest with himself, he wasn’t really surprised.

Corvo had told him nothing more after his confession in Drapers Ward. The fact that Corvo was connected to the Empress’ death, whether through fault of his own or not, had raised a slew of questions that he’d refused to answer. Over the past few days he had assured Soap that he would know the full truth in time, and that the secrecy was for Soap’s own good.

Frustration curled in Soap’s gut and he pursed his lips. The lack of transparency from Corvo and his colleagues was irritating—and worrying. What they were doing here was highly illegal, treasonous from the looks of it, and here Soap was, risking his neck without even being told what _for._ He wanted to believe that Corvo was right, but Soap couldn’t deny his wariness toward these people. Still, if he wanted to keep the peace, he had to go along with what Corvo and the Admiral said.

Total trust would only come with total transparency. Soap wasn’t about to trust Corvo blindly, but he and his colleagues didn’t seem like bad people overall. After all, they sheltered him, fed him, clothed him—going so far as to tailor his clothes _for_ him—and, aside from their secrecy, treated him with the same respect they showed one another, even when they didn’t have to. But without knowing their intentions, he had no way of telling if these people were actually well-meaning, or if they’d convinced themselves they were in the right when their goals meant more harm than good. Soap had seen that story unfold before, and he wouldn’t be surprised if it unfolded again.

But in the end, he was willing to at least give them the chance to prove themselves.

The two of them continued down the stairs and into the taproom, then headed outside through the back door. Soap drew a deep breath as they stepped out into the yard; he was starting to get used to the smell of the river, and the cool breeze that swept in from the east carried the promise of rain. In the distance, he spied heavy gray clouds rolling across the light blue sky, far beyond the city.

The ceiling light in the workshop painted the ground floor in a warm golden glow as Soap and Corvo stepped inside. Piero was hunched over a worktable, muttering to himself. His head shot up when Corvo tapped the garage doorframe, and he blinked at them from behind his crooked glasses.

“Ah! Good morning!” He wiped his hands with a dark gray rag hanging from his pocket before adjusting his glasses. “I suspect you’re here for these?” He stepped to the side, gesturing toward the worktable. On the table sat their training swords.

Soap crossed the room in a few quick strides and snatched up his sword. It was almost identical to the one Piero had made for Corvo, but Soap knew his own sword well. After all, he’d helped Piero with the bulk of the crafting, even going so far as to go pick the materials from Piero’s leftover stock. It was a modest thing, with a slightly curved, narrow blade tipped with a piece of cork wrapped in linen. Soap’s hand slid comfortably over the grip and nestled behind the guard, and he lifted the sword into the air to admire the blade under the light.

“I’ve just completed the finishing touches,” Piero said, clapping his hands together. “I’m certain it will serve you well.”

“I’m sure it will,” answered Corvo as he stepped beside Soap. He grabbed his own sword, then gave Soap a sideways grin and remarked, “You look like you’ve just been awarded a ceremonial sabre.”

“I’ve never held a sword before”—Soap scoffed—“let alone _owned_ one.” He lowered his blade, and in a small voice he added, “It’s cool.”

Corvo’s grin faltered and his brows knitted together. He tilted his head to one side.

“…Cool?”

Soap shot Corvo a curious look. He opened his mouth to ask what he was confused about, but the words died in his throat when it dawned on him; he’d just used modern slang. He pressed his lips together as he tried to come up with an explanation.

“It’s a way of saying something’s, like…” Soap let out a huff. “Aw bollocks, how do I explain…?”

Corvo’s confused expression deepened. Piero peered at Soap from over his round glasses. Soap tapped the blade of his sword against his open palm, trying to ignore the heat prickling up his neck.

“What I’m trying to say,” Soap sighed after a moment, “is that I think it’s interesting and exciting.”

Corvo’s frown lifted away into a thoughtful expression. “I see,” he replied, and as he looked down at the sword in his hands, he softly parroted, _“Cool.”_

Soap held back a relieved sigh and glanced down at his own sword, avoiding Piero’s unrelentingly inquisitive gaze. He suspected many more moments like this one were ahead of him, but that didn’t bear thinking about.

“Right, well, we should be getting to it.” Corvo dipped his head at Piero. “Thank you for the swords.”

Piero blinked at the two of them, then pushed his glasses up his nose. “It was my pleasure,” he replied, clapping his hands together once again. With that, Corvo and Soap left the workshop, stepping back out into the cool morning.

Soap followed Corvo down the yard. Dust kicked up under their boots as the sparse grass gave way to bare earth, stamped firm by years of roving feet. The cool breeze kissed Soap’s skin, and he tilted his head back and drew a deep, languid breath. Once they reached the center of the yard, Corvo signaled for Soap to halt.

“Do you remember your guard postures?” he asked. Soap nodded, and Corvo tucked his sword under his arm.

“Good. Now, without your sword, show me your middle guard.”

Impatience nibbled at the back of Soap’s mind, but he shoved the feeling aside. He transferred the sword into his off hand and eased into position, sliding his left foot far behind his right to form a right angle. With most of his weight supported by his left leg, he brought his left shoulder back until his shoulders formed a nearly straight line in Corvo’s direction. Soap raised his right arm and held an imaginary sword down the center line, the blade angled toward Corvo’s eye.

Corvo tilted his head as he surveyed Soap’s position, walking around to view him from another angle. He freed his sword from under his arm.

“You’re too low,” Corvo commented, and with his sword he tapped Soap’s right leg. “Bring your leg in.”

With a short intake of breath, Soap brought his legs closer together. Instantly he was much steadier on his feet; the change in position had corrected an imbalance he hadn’t realized was there. He gave Corvo an inquiring look and felt a flash of satisfaction at the nod Corvo offered in return.

“Tell me what the middle guard is for,” Corvo ordered, “and when it’s used.”

Soap faced forward, frowning as he tried to visualize the sword in his hand.

“Preparation to guard,” he answered after a moment. “It’s for when you’re unsure which side your opponent is coming from.” He paused for a moment, then gave Corvo another look, this time less confident. “Before blade contact?”

“That’s right,” Corvo said, and he stepped in front of Soap. “Now, from here, show me your inside guard.”

Soap rotated his arm inward, leading with his wrist. He hardly had time to register the click of Corvo’s tongue before the flat of his sword thwacked his right shoulder.

“Shoulder first!” Corvo barked. “Again.”

Soap pursed his lips, stamping down the annoyance that rolled in his gut as he returned to middle guard. After leg positioning, his biggest problem was his tendency to lead with his wrist. He understood why it was an issue—a crooked wrist meant an opening that could be exploited—but he hadn’t gotten a feel for the movements yet.

Starting again from the middle, Soap eased into the inside guard, rotating his arm until it crossed over the center line and the back of his hand faced the ground. This time, Corvo seemed satisfied. Soap’s relief was short-lived, however, as Corvo tapped Soap’s arm with his blade.

“You’re too stiff,” he said. Soap relaxed his arm in response, and with a nod Corvo said, “Better,” and stepped closer to manually refine Soap’s position.

“Remember, if you turn too far”—Corvo demonstrated with a gentle push on Soap’s forearm—“you’ll have difficulty striking at your opponent, and you’ll be exposed to a cut on the outside of your wrist. See?”

Soap nodded, and Corvo tugged his arm back into the correct position. “Now,” he said, backing up a few steps, “from here, show me your outside guard.”

Leading with his shoulder, Soap swung his sword arm back into the middle position, then turned his arm further outward until his knuckles faced the outside. Corvo flashed an approving grin.

“I think that’s your strongest guard,” Corvo commented. “Now, do you remember your hanging and half-hanging guards?”

Soap hesitated a moment, then nodded. They didn’t start practicing the hanging and half-hanging positions until yesterday, but he was certain he remembered. The faint ache in his shoulders was a lingering reminder of last night’s drills.

“Right then, let’s start low. Show me your half-hanging outside guard.”

From the outside guard, Soap flipped his arm so that his imaginary blade faced downward across the center line. A sharp tap from Corvo’s sword reminded him to lift his arm higher, and with a satisfied nod, Corvo ordered:

“Inside half-hanging.”

The inside half-hanging was the easiest to remember. Soap swung his arm across the center line, bringing his imaginary blade to the left.

“Good. Now come back to your outside guard, and from there show me your outside hanging.”

Soap flipped his arm back into the outside guard. From there, he rotated and raised his arm so that his imaginary blade pointed downward and left from over his head. Corvo came forward again, and with firm hands he made fine adjustments to the position of Soap’s arm.

“This is the strongest guard,” Corvo explained, “stronger than the outside guard. It defends against most attacks and leaves very few openings. Remember that.” He took a step back. “Again.”

Soap returned to his outside guard and swung into outside hanging. Corvo’s stern expression went unchanged, and Soap repeated the maneuver. He went over it again and again until Corvo nodded for him to stop.

“Inside hanging,” Corvo said.

From outside hanging, Soap crossed his arm over the center line and held the imaginary blade high over his head, angled downward and to the right. His arm wavered. A gentle tap from Corvo’s sword encouraged him to relax his elbow, which was all it took to strengthen his position.

Corvo made Soap repeat this maneuver several times over as well, until Soap was able to naturally swing his arm from guard to guard without needing to correct himself afterward. A steady ache had begun to well in his shoulder by the time Corvo allowed him to relax again.

“Alright,” Corvo said, and Soap let out a sigh as he let his arm dangle at his side. He rolled his shoulder in an attempt to work out the ache.

“Do you need a break?” Corvo asked. Soap shook his head, and Corvo nodded. “Good. Let’s go through the movements again, but with the sword this time.”

Excitement flashed through Soap, but he made it a point to keep calm as he transferred the sword from his off hand to his dominant. Corvo gave a swift hand signal, and Soap snapped into middle guard—perhaps a little too eagerly, if the grin that flickered across Corvo’s lips was anything to go by. Rather than let that distract him, Soap focused instead on the weight of the sword in his hand. It already felt much better to practice with a tool that existed outside his imagination.

Corvo drilled him through the different guards again. Over and over Soap repeated the maneuvers, focusing on refining his movements. Whenever Soap faltered in his form, Corvo would correct him with a smack from his sword, or else he would step in and adjust his position manually.

Soap found himself getting lost in the drills the more he went through them. The excitement of holding a sword wore off as the dull nature of repetition set in. He’d lost count of how many times he’d gone through the different guards by the time Corvo gestured for him to stop.

“You’re doing quite well,” Corvo said. “Do you need a break?”

Soap took a few seconds to shake out his shoulders and work out the stiffness in his legs. A sharp twinge shot through his wounded left shoulder. He ignored it.

“I’m good,” he said, holding his sword at his side.

“Good! Now we’ll apply these guards to the footwork we’ve covered.” Corvo stepped directly in front of Soap and eased his legs into position, holding his sword upright in a middle guard. “You remember what order we went in last time, correct?”

Soap mirrored Corvo’s position. “Aye.”

“Right, we’ll start slowly, then speed up as you get more comfortable.” Corvo’s blade glinted in the late morning light and bumped against the side of Soap’s as he gave a slight roll of the wrist. “I’ll lead.”

They began with lunges. Corvo’s blade scraped against the side of Soap’s sword as he lunged first. Soap leaned back, just enough that the blade came short of touching his body. When Corvo recovered, Soap lunged forward in turn, and Corvo mirrored the same maneuver Soap had taken before. They went back and forth in place, then Corvo circled to Soap’s right. Soap stepped to the left in time to anticipate Corvo’s next lunge, and he successfully dodged it before making one of his own.

Silhouettes milled about in the corner of Soap’s eye. He snuck a glance toward the space between the pub and the workshop. Some of the servants had started to gather there; he spied Piero, Samuel, and Wallace before he was forced to pay attention once again to Corvo’s maneuvers.

After a few circles and half-circles, Corvo and Soap involved backward and forward steps into their drills. Soap naturally led advances with his right foot and retreats with his left: a holdover from his own training that Corvo seemed relieved to observe. They picked up speed until their choreographed motions morphed into a swift dance. A pleased look crossed Corvo’s face.

“Good!” he encouraged between breaths. “You’re keeping up well!”

Soap flashed a firm smile in response. He didn’t want to break his focus, but he couldn’t deny the small sense of pride sparked by Corvo’s comment.

The two of them went a few more rounds before Corvo led the gradual descent back to where they had started. He phased out the complicated motions one by one and slowed their speed, and once they returned to their starting point, he gave the order to stop.

With a sigh, Soap relaxed out of his guard and took a few ambling steps back, shaking the stiffness out of his legs. Corvo straightened his posture, resting his blade across the palm of his left hand.

“Next,” he began as Soap caught his breath, “I want to see how you apply your guards. We’ll repeat the maneuvers we did before, but this time, I’ll cut at you, and you parry.” Corvo gestured toward Soap with his sword. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Soap nodded and glanced down at his feet. Their boots had left tracks across the stamped, dusty earth, and as Soap breathed in, more of that dust filled his nose. He crinkled his nose and let out a low huff. Then he looked up and glanced around his surroundings.

Piero, Wallace, and Samuel were still watching them from in front of the workshop, with varying levels of interest. They had been joined by a petite, narrow-faced woman. Soap had seen her around a few times before, but never spoke to her. Corvo and the Admiral referred to her as Miss Curnow, but the servants just called her Callista.

A burst of wind swept through the yard. The scent of rain was stronger, and when Soap glanced up, he was surprised to notice the distant clouds were no longer so distant. He and Corvo would have to wrap this up soon.

“Right,” Soap said, and he kicked at the dirt before stepping forward once again. “Ready.”

Soap and Corvo entered middle guard together. This time, Soap kept a much closer eye on Corvo as they began to traverse one another.

The first cut came almost as soon as they started. Corvo lunged and swung for Soap’s right side. Soap’s arm shot out into a rather sloppy outside guard, and though his sword successfully warded off Corvo’s blade, he could feel how unsteady the movement was. In his haste to parry, he’d led the movement with his wrist.

Corvo raised a brow at Soap, but he seemed to understand that Soap had noticed his own mistake. He recovered from the lunge and struck again to Soap’s left.

 _Inside guard._ Soap rotated his arm inward. Corvo’s blade clanged against his own, but this time, Soap’s guard felt stronger. He’d remembered to lead with the shoulder this time. The look Corvo gave him this time was satisfactory.

And thus they continued to go back and forth. Soap began to grow comfortable in their coordinated routine, almost getting bored. Without thinking, he blocked another blow to his right—

Soap was thrown off-balance when Corvo closed the space between them, his blade flicking to Soap’s left and striking him across the chest. An annoyed grunt escaped Soap’s throat and he staggered back, nearly breaking out of his guard before regaining his balance. Corvo smirked.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he warned, and Soap shot him a dirty look. There was no ire behind it, though, and Corvo’s smirk widened in response.

Soap let out a low sigh and shook his head. He took a moment to allow himself a small grin at his own expense, then let it drop from his face as he stepped back into the line. He and Corvo reentered their intricate dance, but this time, Soap was more prepared.

Or so he thought.

Corvo cut at Soap’s left, then redirected his blade when Soap went to block him. He swung at Soap’s legs, and Soap swore and leapt backwards. The blade sang past his right thigh. Corvo recovered faster than Soap did, and he slipped past Soap’s defenses with a well-placed thrust. Soap grit his teeth as the blunt tip of Corvo’s sword jabbed his flank.

“That’s hardly fair!” Samuel shouted from the other end of the yard, his voice light with amusement.

“You should listen to Sam,” Soap quipped once he’d recovered. An impish glint entered Corvo’s eye.

“ _You_ should improve your guards,” Corvo shot back, and he swung for Soap’s right arm.

Soap parried the blow with an outside guard. Corvo redirected the cut once again, aiming instead for Soap’s exposed left side. Instinct took over and Soap’s arm shot to the left. The clang of metal rang through the yard as Soap beat Corvo’s blade out of the line. A broad smile sprung across Corvo’s face.

“Well done!” someone shouted from above. Soap’s eyes flashed upwards, in the direction of the pub. Standing on the second-floor balcony leading out from the brewery was Lydia, and her ruddy cheeks dimpled as she grinned from ear to ear. She waved and flashed a thumbs-up gesture. Soap offered a brief grin in return and waved back with his off hand, and as he did, another figure emerged from the brewery.

The Admiral stepped beside Lydia, holding a drink in one hand. He wore his usual stern frown as he looked down at Soap and Corvo. Yet vague interest was spelled across his weathered features, and as he leaned over and muttered something to Lydia, he kept his eyes on Soap. Suddenly wary of being judged, unease curled in Soap’s gut, and he turned his attention back to his training partner.

Corvo continued his endless barrage of attacks. His blows became odd, unpredictable, aiming higher or lower than Soap was prepared for. This wasn’t the controlled style Soap had grown used to—it was back-alley.

Soap narrowly side-stepped another cut to his legs. What he learned so far was good for controlled fights, which this clearly wasn’t any longer. He had to adapt.

Sweat collected on Soap’s brow. His shoulder was starting to burn from the effort of these maneuvers, and he felt his guard begin to slip. He tried to parry a left-hand attack with an inside guard, but it was sloppy, and he hissed through his teeth as he was punished with a powerful strike to the back of his wrist.

“And there goes your hand!” Corvo barked.

Soap ground his teeth. Corvo repeated the attack, but this time Soap was able to parry without exposing himself to attack. He didn’t have time to celebrate his success, however, as Corvo recovered and thrust his blade at Soap’s legs.

Soap drew a sharp breath. He realized his problem; Corvo was recovering quicker than he was and could attack long before Soap could judge what was happening. Soap needed to be faster.

Corvo brought his sword down toward Soap’s head, aiming for his right side. Soap swung his blade upward into outside hanging. From here, Corvo would have two options: recover or feint. Soap couldn’t let him take either.

Before Corvo could act, Soap lunged as far as his right leg could take him. The move threw him off-balance, but that didn’t matter. He thrust his blade for Corvo’s torso, and Corvo flinched, but couldn’t avoid the cork-tipped end of Soap’s blade as it grazed his waist.

“Brilliant!” Wallace shouted from the far end of the yard, and Lydia cheered wordlessly above them. The surprised look on Corvo’s face melted into a faint smile.

“Clever,” he said, then he lurched forward and swept Soap’s right leg from under him.

A low cry escaped Soap as he hit the dirt, and he winced as pain shot through his wounded shoulder. Hearty laughter erupted from their audience, and Soap scrambled to sit upright. He’d dropped his sword when he fell. Corvo bent over and picked it up, then handed it back to Soap, his smirk having taken on a distinctly smug air.

“But not clever enough.”

Soap snorted and took his sword back. He winced again when another flash of pain went through his shoulder. Had he ripped open a suture?

Corvo’s smug energy fell away and he gave Soap a concerned look. “Are you alright?”

The laughing died down, and Soap thought he heard a concerned murmur from the other side of the yard. Embarrassment flashed white-hot along his ears and he grit his teeth.

“Aye,” he grumbled. He gingerly rolled his shoulder and sucked in a breath when the pain sharpened. “…I think?”

This time, Corvo’s smile was apologetic. He offered his hand, and Soap transferred his sword into his off-hand and took Corvo’s with his right. He allowed Corvo to help him up.

“I think now’s a good time for a break,” Corvo said once Soap was back on his feet. This time, Soap had no objections, and he nodded. Corvo glanced up at the sky, and with a furrow of his brow he added, “It looks like it might rain soon, anyway. Damn.”

Soap looked across the river. The clouds crept ever closer, and the wind had picked up. Distant thunder rolled across the sky.

“Will you be alright to start again once the rain clears up?” Corvo asked. “I would hate to aggravate your wound, but we still have much to cover.”

“Aye, I’ll be fine,” Soap answered. When Corvo gave him an uncertain look, Soap added, “I’m not made of bloody glass. I’m good for later.”

“Whatever you say,” Corvo answered, then he chuckled and clapped a hand on Soap’s good shoulder. “You did well.”

“Yeah?” Soap managed a small grin. “Thanks.”

“Master Corvo?”

Corvo and Soap turned in unison as Callista approached them. Her dark brown eyes flickered in Soap’s direction, and she offered a small, polite nod of acknowledgement. He returned the gesture, and she turned her attention back to Corvo.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she began, “but I’m still putting together a lesson plan for Lady Emily.” She clasped her hands together, holding them low in front of herself. “If you remember, it would be helpful to know where she might have left off with her tutoring, so that I can plan accordingly.”

Corvo nodded sharply and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I can help,” he answered. “Wait for me up in the tower—I’ll meet you there in a moment.”

“Thank you, sir,” Callista said with a slight smile. She gave Soap one more look, then turned and walked back down the yard. Wallace opened the door for her, then followed her back inside the pub.

“Well, that’s that,” Corvo said, and he patted Soap’s shoulder again. “I’ll talk to you later, then.”

Soap shot Corvo a curious look. “Lady Emily?” he asked. When Corvo walked off without another word, Soap called after him, “Corvo!”

But Corvo ignored him, disappearing inside the pub after Wallace and Callista. Irritation gnawed at the back of Soap’s mind and he let out a sharp sigh, idly rubbing his throbbing shoulder with his right hand. This was the first time he’d heard mention of anyone by that name, and clearly it was a name he hadn’t been meant to hear. His irritation melted into frustration.

“Captain MacTavish?”

Soap’s gaze snapped away from the pub and fell on Samuel, whose approach he hadn’t noticed. Soap let out a low breath, and Samuel’s brows turned upward in an apologetic expression.

“I’m sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to give ya a start.”

“Nah, you’re good,” Soap replied. He jutted his chin upward. “What’s up?”

Samuel paused for a moment, furrowing his brow as he tilted his head. Soap cringed when he realized that he’d just used modern slang _again,_ but before he could scrape together the words to explain, Samuel’s confused look fell away. It seemed he got it.

“I’d like to ask you a favor,” Samuel said, “if you don’t mind.”

“A favor?”

Samuel glanced up toward the pub, then dipped his head at Soap.

“I’ll be out running some supplies tonight,” he explained, “and I could use an extra pair of hands.”

“That’s all?” Soap huffed. “Aye, I can do that.”

Samuel’s smile bordered on nervous. “Ah, well”—he rubbed the back of his neck—“that’s not all.”

Soap blinked and rested his right hand on his hip, shifting his weight from leg to leg.

“Right then,” he pressed, “what do you need?”

“I’ve got a friend across the river”—Samuel scratched the stubble on his chin—“ah, his name’s Bernie. The plague’s been hittin’ him and his real hard, and lately I’ve been swinging by the Tower District to drop off some supplies for him.” His nervous smile broadened. “Just enough to help out a little. Nothing the Admiral wouldn’t miss.”

Soap’s gaze flickered to the balcony where Lydia and Havelock had been standing earlier. They were both gone, and Soap turned his attention back to Samuel with a quirk of his brow.

“Sounds like the Admiral doesn’t know about this friend of yours.”

“He doesn’t,” Samuel admitted, “and I’d appreciate if it stayed that way. I understand if you’d rather not, but I’d be grateful for your help.”

Soap glanced toward the pub again, worrying the inside of his lip. Havelock had made it clear that he wasn’t to go out unsupervised, but surely by now he’d trust him enough to help out Samuel. Hopefully. It _was_ an innocent supply run, after all—just with a bit of a detour. Samuel would also owe him, and Soap couldn’t deny the appeal of a favor.

“Does it have to be now?” Soap asked, turning his gaze back on Samuel. “Corvo and I plan on training more once the rain passes.”

“Not at all!” responded Samuel. “I was actually planning on heading out this evening.”

“That’s fine then.”

Samuel nodded, then jerked his chin toward Soap’s shoulder. “Do you need to get that looked at, son? That was quite a fall.”

Soap looked down at himself. The worst of the pain had passed, but a throbbing ache still lingered.

“Ah, wouldn’t hurt to check in with Piero,” Soap muttered, and he brushed dust off the front of his waistcoat. “You mind if I let Corvo know where we’re going?”

Samuel’s face brightened. “No, sir!” he replied. “I assume this means you’ll be coming along?”

“Beats sitting around all night,” Soap sighed. Outside of training, reading, and struggling to keep up with Piero, there wasn’t much to do at the Hound Pits. Running a quick errand for Samuel would be a nice change of scenery. And as for the Admiral, Soap figured it wouldn’t hurt to get Corvo to cover for him. He wasn’t going to be completely unsupervised, after all; he would be with Samuel.

Hopefully _this_ outing wouldn’t result in extortion or bodily harm.

“I’ll meet you down at the docks at seven.” Samuel’s gravelly voice pulled Soap out of his thoughts. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Soap waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it,” he responded. “I’ll catch you later.”

* * *

The smell of frost and of rain long-passed rode on the wind as Samuel’s little riverboat skipped along the river. The silver light of the full moon peeked through rolling dark clouds and glimmered on the river’s black waves. Soap hunched over when the boat lurched on a sharp wave, clutching a short, yet wide wrapped parcel against his chest. Samuel sat at the helm, piloting his boat toward the swiftly approaching silhouette of the Tower District riverfront.

Picking up the supplies from Havelock’s dealer had taken a bit longer than they’d anticipated. In the end, they’d gotten what they’d needed; wooden boxes and burlap sacks of food, elixir, and supplies filled up the space in the back of the boat. Still, they were behind schedule.

The wind on the river was strong tonight, and a particularly fierce burst sent the _Amaranth_ rolling over another sharp wave. Soap grit his teeth, his seat creaking beneath him as he leaned further into the boat. His hood threatened to fly off his head, and he reached up with one hand and tugged it down. He couldn’t wait to get on solid ground. Thankfully, it wasn’t far off; Samuel was already pulling up to a long, narrow patch of riverbank, on the far end of which stood a concrete staircase leading to the streets above.

“You remember the directions I gave you?” Samuel asked, his voice elevated over the sounds of the churning river. Soap nodded.

“Up Bath Avenue and left on the intersection at Judge, right?”

“That’s right! House 1078!”

“House 1078,” muttered Soap to himself. The rumble of the engine died as Samuel shut it off, and Soap jumped to his feet.

As Soap stepped out onto solid ground, Samuel said after him, “I need to run back to the pub. Once I’m done, I’ll come fetch ya.”

Soap turned and arched a brow at him. “So you’re ditching me?” he asked sarcastically.

“Only for an hour,” Samuel replied with a sheepish grin. “That’s all the time I need to drop these supplies off and come back.”

Soap eyed the cargo in the back of the boat. Maybe returning to the pub wasn’t a bad idea; all those supplies would be excellent motivation for a fight if someone came around looking for trouble.

“Keep an eye out for City Watch,” Samuel warned. “This time of night, they’ll be looking out folks tryin’ to break curfew.”

“Gotcha,” Soap replied. “I’ll see you in an hour, then.”

“Stay safe,” Samuel said, and he pulled a lever at the helm. The boat’s engine roared to life, and Soap took a step back as Samuel piloted his boat away from the shore. He watched Samuel sail into the night, then turned around and headed for the streets, his parcel tucked firmly under his right arm.

The Tower District was quiet, but not lifeless. Rows of townhouses lined the street, and light glowed through some of the windows. Soap adjusted his scarf over his face as he passed under the working streetlamps, the hum of electricity filling the night air as he walked.

He followed the street east, and it wasn’t long before Soap came upon the intersection at Bath Avenue. Bath was lined up and down with abandoned shops and business, but as Soap turned north and continued walking, he noticed that only a fraction of them bore warnings of plague. The Tower District was perhaps lucky in that regard—unless, of course, it was just this specific area that had been mostly spared.

Soap adjusted the parcel under his arm. He scanned the signs on each street he passed, looking for any indication he was closer to his destination; as he did so, he kept a look out for any other signs of life. He heard nothing but the whistle of the wind and saw even less, but that did little to quell the sneaking anxiety that crept up and down his spine. He was more than aware of how vulnerable he was, traipsing around the Tower District with a package in his possession. But unlike Drapers Ward, this time Soap didn’t have Corvo _or_ his knife to back him up if things went south. His safety depended on noticing a threat before it could get the jump on him.

Soap passed an alley on his left-hand side. His heart jumped into his throat when a metallic clatter rang from the darkness and he whipped around, poised to run. A few seconds passed, then Soap let out a sigh when he spotted the source of the noise; a stray cat rooting through a pile of discarded cans. It was a pathetic, skinny little thing, and its wide eyes glowed green in the streetlights as it turned to look at him. Soap shook his head and continued down the street.

The rest of Soap’s trip was uneventful, and he was able to find the intersection at Judge Road without trouble. He turned left and pressed on.

Judge was another residential street, lined with rowhouses on one side and apartments on the other. Soap kept to the rowhouses, scanning the house numbers as he went. He had started a long way down the row, but after some time, he finally came to his destination: House 1078.

Soap trudged up onto the front stoop, his boots thumping against the wet stone steps. After readjusting the package under his arm, he rapped his knuckles against the painted-green wooden door.

At first, he heard nothing on the other side. He knocked once more, then double-checked the house number, wondering if he’d gotten something mixed up. Before long, though, he heard approaching footsteps. Then the door inched open, and a broad, white-bearded face peeked through. A pair of pale eyes narrowed at Soap.

“Who’s this?” asked the man at the door.

“Are you Bernie?” Soap asked. The man nodded, and Soap pulled the parcel from under his arm and held it out for the man. “I’m a friend of Samuel’s. He asked me to bring you this.”

The man’s eyes widened before a smile crossed his careworn face. “Ah, Sam!” he said, then he pushed the door shut. Soap tilted his head as the jingle of a bolt lock sounded from the other side, then the door swung wide open.

Bernie was a short, paunchy little man, with balding white hair and a bearded face weathered by sea salt and time. He took the parcel and flashed Soap another broad smile, and a silver tooth glinted behind his thin lips.

“Thank you kindly,” he said, nestling the parcel under his own arm. “What’s your name, son?”

“Uh…” Soap shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “…John.”

“John! How’s Sam doing?” The smell of cigars wafted from inside the house as Bernie stepped off to the side. “Why don’t you come inside for a little while—the cold’s dreadful, and you look like you could use a drink—”

Soap raised his hands in a refusing gesture, hoping his polite, apologetic smile reached his eyes. “I can’t.”

Bernie’s smile was still plastered on his face as he waved for Soap to enter. “Aw, I insist!” he encouraged. “I just put the tea on, but if that ain’t what you fancy, I’ve got a good bottle of Dunwall gin—"

“I’d love to,” Soap urged, “but I’ve got to get going. Sam and I are running behind schedule.”

A flash of disappointment crossed old Bernie’s face. “Ah, I see,” he relented. “Well, good luck to ya. Tell Sam not to be a stranger, yeah?”

“Aye,” Soap said, and with a dip of his head he eased back toward the steps. “Take care, sir.”

“Take care!” Bernie said, and with that he backed into the house and shut the door. Soap let out a relieved sigh, then turned around and hurried down the steps.

The return trip to Bath Avenue was uneventful, and Soap managed to get there in less time than it had taken to find Bernie’s house. He just had to find his way back to the old residential street down south, and from there it would be a straight shot to the rendezvous point. Tucking his hands into his pockets, Soap kept a brisk pace as he continued down Bath.

He heard them before he saw anything. Footsteps. So faint he could hardly hear them over his own. Apprehension creeping up his spine, Soap snuck a glance over his shoulder.

Trailing far behind him were two men, shoulder to shoulder. They were probably his size, wearing plain, dark clothes with their faces angled toward the ground. Dread welled in Soap’s gut when he realized they were gaining on him, their pace just slightly faster than his own. From this distance he couldn’t tell if they had any weapons on them—he saw no obvious guns or swords—but he didn’t want to stick around to find out. Whatever their intentions were, Soap had a bad feeling about them.

Soap faced forward again, scanning his surroundings for potential escape routes. He didn’t want to wander too far off his path, but if these men were as shady as they looked, then he might have to. Soap had no weapons, so if they caught up with him, it would just be him and his own strength against whatever they had. If it came to that. Hand-to-hand combat was one of Soap’s strengths, but that didn’t mean he fancied taking on two opponents at once.

Soap looked back at the two men. They were still gaining on him—had they sped up? Soap swore under his breath and picked up speed. If they got closer, he’d have to make a run for it.

One of the men lifted his head and stared Soap down. They locked eyes for a moment. Then he and his companion started running.

_Bollocks!_

Soap’s boots pounded the cobblestone as he broke into a sprint. The unintelligible shouts of the two men trailed after him, but he ignored them as he turned right down the first intersection he came across. He didn’t bother noting which street he’d gone on—he could figure that out later. What mattered was making sure those men didn’t catch up to him.

Soap shot a look over his shoulder. The men were still chasing him; one of them was already far ahead of the other, his scowling eyes anchored on Soap. Soap hissed a curse under his breath and faced forward again, pushing himself ever faster. The cold night air whipped across his cheeks as he veered left down an alley and leapt over a pile of garbage in his path.

“That way!” he heard one of the men cry. Soap grit his teeth, scouring his surroundings for an escape route. The alleyway curved off to the right, and as he ran, he heard echoing footsteps behind him. They’d gone into the alley.

Soap’s lungs burned with each breath he gulped down. He needed to lose these men, _now;_ he could hear the fast one gaining on him.

The alleyway was dark; he was far from the streetlamps, and the scarce moonlight peeking through the clouds was hardly enough for Soap to see where he was going. He didn’t notice the smaller alleyway jutting off from the first until he’d almost passed it, and Soap slid on the wet cobblestone in his haste to change directions. He managed to stay upright and darted down the other alley—

Something caught on Soap’s foot and he tumbled to the ground with a low cry, landing on his hands and knees. He swore again, kicking his leg free of whatever had tripped him and scrambling upright. Another set of footsteps rounded the corner.

“Hey!” the man behind him yelled, but Soap ignored him. He started to run, but a weight slammed into his shoulder and flung him against the wall. Soap let out a shout as his bad shoulder hit the brick.

A hand closed around Soap’s throat, and man’s hot, rancid breath spread across his face as he leaned close. Soap’s face twisted into a grimace and he shot his knee forward, aiming for the man’s crotch. He hit his target and the thug’s grip on his neck loosened as doubled over with a gasp.

Soap’s heart pounded in his ears as he threw a punch. It landed on the thug’s jaw, sending him back against the opposite wall. One last kick to the gut sent the man sprawling to the ground, and Soap turned tail and sprinted off without waiting to see if he’d get up.

The alley diverged into two paths, and Soap picked a random direction and ran. He kept running until he didn’t hear footsteps and kept running after that until his lungs threatened to burst.

The alley spilled out into a street and Soap finally slowed in front of a row of apartment buildings, coming to a stop next to an overturned skip bin. He bent over and rested his hands against his knees. White-hot pain throbbed through his bad shoulder and felt warmth trickle down his arm, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He tilted his head toward the sky, and the cold air he swallowed down sent a sweet burn through his chest.

He didn’t know what those men had wanted from him, but at this point, it didn’t matter; he’d lost them. He was certain of it, at least. Soap took a few moments to catch his breath, then stood up straight. He could celebrate his successful escape later, but for now, he needed to get back to the rendezvous point.

Soap looked around himself. His relief at evading his pursuers faded into newfound dread when he realized— _he had no idea where he was._ None of the apartments looked familiar, and when he walked further down and found a sign, he didn’t recognize the street name, either.

“Fuckin’ brilliant,” Soap grumbled under his breath. He spun around and looked back in the direction he’d come from. If he hadn’t just been bloody _chased,_ then he’d consider retracing his steps. Maybe the thugs had turned back already, or gone down a different route, but Soap didn’t want to risk running into them headlong. He’d have to find his own way.

Soap walked off in the same general direction he’d come from, but instead of heading back down the alleys, he simply continued down the main road. He could vaguely remember which way the back streets took him, so if he were lucky, he could probably find his way back to Bath Avenue. He gingerly rubbed his bad shoulder as he went, wincing when stabbing pain ripped through his flesh. Certainly he’d ripped a suture.

Soap came to another intersection and, after much deliberation, turned left. This street was smaller, lined with apartment buildings and the occasional shop. Most of the buildings on this street were clearly abandoned; some were boarded up, and others were marked off with the sign of plague. The streetlamps still worked here, however, so Soap assumed he couldn’t have been too far off from a more populated area.

He walked for a long time, picking directions carefully as he came upon different streets. None of the signs he found so far looked familiar as he continued on, and Soap was starting to lose hope that he’d find his way. He had begun to consider turning back when, finally, he started to see buildings that looked familiar to him. An old solicitor’s office, a closed-down apothecary. Encouraged, Soap increased his pace, scanning his surroundings for anything else he could recognize. Finally, he came upon an intersection with a much larger thoroughfare, and the sign before him read:

BATH AVE.

Soap clenched his fist and hissed _yes_ under his breath, then turned south down Bath Avenue. He recognized where he was now; in fact, he couldn’t have been far from the street where Samuel had dropped him off. Which was a blessing, considering all the time he’d spent trying to find his way back. Eager to return to the rendezvous point, Soap jogged down the street, keeping an eye out for the street he was looking for. He found it a few minutes down the road, and he turned and made a straight dash for the river.

It was a ten-minute journey from Bath to the river if Soap judged the time right, but he managed to get there without running into trouble. He came to the end of the street and peered over the stone barrier separating the road from the river below, scanning the riverbank for any sign of Samuel.

He found none.

For what felt like the umpteenth time that night, relief gave way to dismay as Soap realized Samuel wasn’t there yet. Hoping to catch his approach, Soap looked further out to the river. He saw nothing but the glow of the moon on black waves.

“Where the fuck are you?” Soap grumbled, giving in to his impatience in the hopes that it would ease some of his alarm. His mind had already begun to spin drastic what-ifs about Samuel’s safety, his own location, and even that he’d missed his chance and Samuel had simply abandoned him. Soap knew it was a ridiculous product of his own anxiety—Samuel had probably got caught up in something and was running behind. Hell, Soap had completely lost track of time anyway; there was a chance he was still early.

Soap drew a deep breath, rolling his shoulder in an attempt to soothe some of the pain. He hoped Samuel wouldn’t be too much longer. If those thugs came by again, Soap wouldn’t have anywhere to run—

“Hey, you!” a strange, male voice shouted. “What are you doing out here?”

Soap’s heart jumped in his throat as he spun in the direction of the voice.

Further down the street stood a man. He was clad in a dark blue uniform, and his round metal helmet glinted under the streetlights as he took a step toward Soap. His hand came to rest on the pistol strapped across his broad chest. Behind him, two more men in identical uniforms stepped out from an adjacent street and stared Soap down.

Soap’s blood ran cold.

_City Watch._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*crawls from the abyss*_
> 
> I HAVE RETURNED!
> 
> Sorry it took me so long! Mental health and chronic pain have been kicking my ass and for the past few weeks, writer's block had me in a chokehold, but I'm finally back! 
> 
> First thing's first, some updates!
> 
> One thing I've noticed is that my chapter lengths tend to stretch twice as long than I expect. If I continue to write chapters that blow the 5k word mark out of the water, then it would be best to extend my posting schedule from weekly to every two weeks so that I don't burn myself out. That way I can make sure what I'm writing is the best quality I can manage, and I'll also have time to dedicate to my other responsibilities XD (Evil of me to announce an extended deadline after a cliffhanger, I know...)
> 
> Also! If anyone is interested, I've been thinking about compiling a master doc with all the content warnings applicable to each chapter. That way I can provide explicit warnings to anyone who needs them without writing spoilers in the author's notes. Not everyone will need it obviously, but Call of Honor can and will get pretty dark at points, and as someone with severe triggers myself, I figured someone out there would appreciate the resource! If I do compile that document, it will be linked in my author's notes, my twitter, and my CoH-related pages on my personal and writing blogs.
> 
> Sorry again for the long absence, and thank you so much for your patience! I'd like to extend a hearty thanks to my wonderful beta readers (solnishka, atramento, and my dearest partner) for their help with this chapter—I really couldn't do it without them! And thank you to my dear readers for your continued support! Your feedback is greatly appreciated!
> 
> If all goes well, I shall be back Friday after next with a new chapter!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Call of Honor: Side Servings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25870912) by [Doctor_Nightfall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Nightfall/pseuds/Doctor_Nightfall)
  * [Call of Honor: Students of Cleis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26381350) by [Doctor_Nightfall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Nightfall/pseuds/Doctor_Nightfall)




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